


Not My Area

by dragonflies_and_dalmatians



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 102,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2024001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflies_and_dalmatians/pseuds/dragonflies_and_dalmatians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be easier, Molly thinks, if she didn’t love Sherlock Holmes. Easier, better, safer … and boring. Completely AU after 2x03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and now the BBC. I just wrote this for fun, with no copyright infringement intended.

Summary:It would be easier, Molly thinks, if she didn’t love Sherlock Holmes. Easier, better, safer … and boring. Completely AU after 2x03.

A/N: At this point, this is hardly a unique idea in this fandom, but I’m new to Sherlock and newer to its fanfiction, and I’ve been rooting for this pairing since their first encounter in 1x01. The inspiration for this fic came from the lyrics to Chris Isaac’s Wicked Game, and my first Sherlock fanfiction. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and now the BBC. I just wrote this for fun, with no copyright infringement intended.

###

It would be easier, Molly thinks, if she didn’t love Sherlock Holmes. Easier, better, safer … and boring. Boring could be good. Nice, safe, simple. But then, if she had wanted nice, safe and simple she wouldn’t have become a pathologist, would she? No, she’d have a nice job somewhere in a doctor’s surgery, nothing but coughs and cold, bumps and bruises, aches and pains of the old and the young, a nice routine of vaccinations and smear tests with a few prostrate exams thrown in.

Looking down at the body wearing Sherlock’s face, she thinks that maybe doing a prostrate exam on an eighty year-old wouldn’t actually be too bad. _Nice, safe, much better than looking down at the man you love and seeing his lifeless eyes staring back up at you._

_What do you need?_

_You._

She breathes, and remembers that that is why she’s here. Because Sherlock Holmes needed her, and there was no way she could refuse him anything. Come and get me in the middle of Scotland because my car’s broken down? Molly doesn’t have a car but she has a rail card that she never uses and Scotland isn’t that far. Got a particularly annoying relative that you want to pitch into the Thames? Molly will be there with concrete blocks to weigh them down. Got an impossibly elaborate rouse in mind, designed to lure out and expose a criminal mastermind’s worldwide network, while simultaneously faking your own death and thereby shattering the hearts of the few people who do actually like you? Well, why not?

 _You’re too much of a pushover_ , her brother would say, her younger brother who always used to charm his way into Molly’s car for a lift, or a pickup. She’s already driven to Scotland to pick him up because his car broke down; Sherlock’s favours are always much more creative. _But he’s right_ , she thinks as she locks the morgue doors and turns off the security cameras, and just waits. _I am too much of a pushover_.

She checks her watch two, five, ten times. _Sherlock should be awake by now_. Will she ever not wait for him? For someone who is so obsessed with the timekeeping in others (she’s also been the recipient of more than one of his ‘If convenient’ text messages that so infuriate John) he’s remarkably lax himself, but then she supposes that the very intelligent can keep to their own time, and if someone doesn’t like it, then the high-functioning sociopath in them will just disregard the dismay. She stares at her oft-bitten nails and breathes.

 _When this is over, you need to get some more friends. Nice, normal, sane friends who don’t fake their own deaths just because its something to do_.

Staring at Sherlock’s glassy, blank look, those nice, normal friends and the promise of when this is over fade into the background, a wish whispered against the wind. Because who is she kidding? Sherlock is the sun, and she is Pluto, that sad little rock that used to be a planet when she was younger, out there on its own, away from the other planets, frantically orbiting the sun just hoping that one day she’ll get close enough to feel the warmth, even if it is just reflected off from one of the other plants. The real ones. Not the fake ones, like she is.

“You’re talking very loudly, Molly.” That voice, God, _that voice_. If God had a voice, he’d sound like Sherlock. Calm, collected, utterly right about everything, can make one word mean the world. _You_.

She’s pathetic.

“You’re alright.” She exhales a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“Of course I am.” Sherlock sits up and brushes himself off. “Your morgue table is very cold.”

“Dead people don’t feel the cold.”

Sherlock stares at her, eye level now that he’s sitting down. His eyes are blue, so blue they’re almost white. He doesn’t blink very much but he does now, like he’s trying to get some dust out of his eye. “Where’s my brother?”

“I’m here, Sherlock.” Mycroft Holmes looks very out of place in the morgue, expensive suit neatly fastened, umbrella tucked over his arm. He doesn’t want to be here anymore than Molly wants him here, but his input is essential if they’re to make Sherlock’s death mean something, anything, other than a waste.

“Are the arrangements in place?”

“Of course.” Mycroft taps his watch, although no emotion crosses his face. _He looks a little like Sherlock_ , Molly thinks. _If you squint_. They have the same colouring and the same nose, when viewed from the side, but nothing else. She wonders what their parents were like, but the very idea that Sherlock Holmes grew inside a woman, was a child and then became a man is preposterous. Sherlock Holmes didn’t come from anywhere like normal people did. He just _is_.

“Good.” Sherlock gets off the examination table in a smooth stroke. “I presume that you have a plan for getting me out of this hospital?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Sherlock touches Molly’s arm, kisses her very gently on her cheek and Molly feels like crying. “Thank you, Molly.”

She nods and closes her eyes, wanting to savour the feel of him so close. When she opens them, no more than a few seconds later, they’re both gone.

###

The next week passes like its in a bubble, a little sphere of oxygen underwater in the dark, no lights to see. The only saving grace is that Molly doesn’t see people, very much. No-one wants to come to the morgue unless forced, and the other pathologists stare at her with thinly-veiled interest since she is the only one who will world with Sherlock. _Would work with Sherlock_ , she reminds herself. _Past tense. Sherlock’s dead, remember?_ So she goes to work and she goes home, breaking her routine only to go to the supermarket where her eyes search for a man in a long dark coat with a mess of dark curls. _Don’t be so silly_ , she thinks as she buys an extra bottle of wine because Lord knows, she needs it. _Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do something as boring as shop. What, are you thinking you’re going to run into him on the cereal aisle, or buying a packet of crisps? He’s bringing down an international terror network, not doing the weekly shop_. So she goes to the supermarket and to work and John and Lestrade don’t come to the morgue. She sees Donovan and Anderson, who stare at her with thinly-disguised curiosity, like she’s a panda in the zoo. Anderson’s not so bad but its Donovan who’s the worst, dark eyes that see everything.

“You going to the funeral?” She says one day, as Molly’s cutting open a chest cavity and bits of bone flick up onto her goggles.

“Of course.” Molly stares at the mess of the man’s chest, a gunshot wound at close range. _Please don’t ask me anymore_ , she thinks, because she’s the worst liar in the world.

Donovan bites her lip and looks at the floor, for the first time uncomfortable. “Lestrade’s on holiday. Sick time. Didn’t take any when his wife buggered off and left him but now the freak’s gone-“

“Don’t.” Molly puts down the electric saw and glares at Donovan. “Don’t call him that. Not here.”

Donovan bites a nail, her other hand drumming against her arm. “What did he do to make you all act this way?” She says, genuine disbelief in her voice. “I heard, the way he talked to you, to Watson, to Lestrade. He was a bastard to you all and now he’s gone and you’re walking around like you lost your mum or something.”

Molly stares at the female detective and looks down at her saw. She’s not a violent person by nature but suddenly she wants to turn the saw on Donovan just to see the disbelief go out of her eyes. “This is going to be some time. I can send you the results by email, if you like. No point waiting.”

“That’s alright.” Donovan’s chewing gum and she pops a bubble. “I don’t mind waiting.”

Molly looks up at the female detective and turns on the saw. “I do.”

###

The funeral is small and bare, like a room that’s waiting for a new owner. There are tears and sobs and Molly’s surprised by how convincing she sounds when her tears join John and Mrs Hudson’s on the grass. Once the service is done she leaves, even though she spies John’s form through the railings as she leaves the ceremony and tries to hail a taxi. _I’m hurting him_ , she thinks. _I’m lying to him and his friend is dead, and he’s crying and I feel like its my fault_.

There are no cabs available, but a sleek black car idles at the curb and the door opens.

“Do get inside, Dr. Hooper.” There’s no mistaking Mycroft’s smooth, cultured tones. “I would hate for you to catch a chill.”

The car’s inside is dark and all leather, and Molly’s legs slip against it as she fastened her belt. Mycroft watches her with thinly-veiled curiosity, much like Sherlock regards things through the lens of that magnifying glass he carries around with him. Something to be studied. Molly fights the urge to smooth her hair, tug down her skirt hem like she used to do in school when words like ‘international terror network’ and ‘fake deaths’ were things she saw in films, and Sherlock Holmes was another world away. She tries to imagine Sherlock as a teenager and just can’t. He just is; she’ll be seventy and grey and everything will sag, and Sherlock will call on her to run tests and he’ll be the same as he is now.

The car pulls away from the curb, John’s figure just a dark glimpse through the tinted windows. Molly stares until they round the corner, heading towards her flat even though she hasn’t given them any directions. She turns her attention to Mycroft. _Just what is it that you do, exactly?_ Sherlock had never been clear but it didn’t take the younger Holmes’ powers of deduction to work out that it was something important. Not to mention well-paid; Mycroft’s shoes cost more than Molly’s monthly rent.

“You’re looking well, Dr. Hooper.” Mycroft says at length. “A very convincing show at the funeral. I was surprised.”

“How is he?”

“Fine.” Mycroft pauses, seems to collect himself. “He’s working, so by Sherlock’s definition of the word, he’s fine.”

Molly swallows this like its bad medicine and thinks of the man in her laboratory, who looked sad when he thought no-one could see him. _He’s not fine, not at all._ “Have you seen him?”

“He left London the night of his … death. He hasn’t been back since.”

“Is he still in the country?”

“That, I’m afraid, I can’t divulge.” Mycroft reaches into an inner pocket and comes away with a slim phone. He checks the screen and a long, perfectly crafted eyebrow shoots upwards. “National security, you know.”

 _No_ , Molly wants to scream. _I don’t know. I don’t know anything about any of this. I’ve broken God knows how many laws and I’ll probably lose my job if anyone ever found out, and you sit there, reading me text messages while your brother is God knows’ where doing God knows’ what_.

“None of this will come back to you, Dr Hooper.” Mycroft gives her that sympathetic smile again. “I can assure you that your prospects at St. Bart’s are really quite secure. In fact, I have it on good authority that you’ll be up for a promotion within the next three years, if that’s what you wish.”

A promotion? Molly’s throat goes dry at the thought. “Mycroft, if you think you can buy my silence with-“

“No, my dear.” Mycroft’s smile is so smug that Molly wants to scream. “This is nothing to do with me. Your work with my brother has been noted by your superiors. You won this promotion all on your own. I am simply offering you my assurances that it, and any future promotions, will not be impacted by what you did for my brother.”

The car stops outside Molly’s flat and she glances up at the tall building. In five minutes she will be inside her small flat, the kettle boiling and the fire on. She shifts in her seat, stares at Sherlock’s brother. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because my brother asked me to.” Mycroft crosses one long leg over the other. “He told me that you mattered, to him, and that I was to make sure that you did not pay for his choices.”

“Really?” Molly feels a flare of treacherous hope in her chest. “He said that?”

“No. But you get the idea.” The door opens from the outside and Mycroft tips his head. “Good day, Dr. Hooper.”

###

Three weeks after Sherlock’s death, the papers start to talk about an exoneration. Just a little dribble at first, but by the end of the week it’s a torrent, gushing apologies and retractions and lots of hand-wringing and glum faces. _Mistakes were made_ , one says on the news. _Might have been a little hasty_ , another concurs. _He really was rather brilliant_ , one commentator says after another. Kitty Riley disappears after her fifteen minutes of fame, relegated to a personal online blog insisting that Jim Moriarty was nothing but a part in an elaborate play; Molly doesn’t give the woman the satisfaction of increasing her hit count to even read what she has to say. _Too late_ , she wants to say as one picture of Sherlock after another spins across the television, the newspapers and the police and everyone else but her and John and Mycroft and Mrs Hudson are forced to eat their words. _Too late. All of you, you’re too late_.

She catches herself thinking about him, when she lets her guard down. On the outside she has a mask that she shows to everyone else, but everyone’s mask slips. Hers slides down her face when she sees the chair he liked to sit at, the microscope that he would always use. The mug that she pilfered from the break room (okay, bought in the supermarket because it reminded him of her) sits in a drawer in her desk, washed and bleached to remove all coffee stains from the inside.

Mike Stamford takes her to one side a few weeks after the newspapers break the story about Sherlock’s exoneration. His face is flushed and excited when he tells her about the promotion. “Not this year, mind.” He says as his pudgy hand taps hers. “Budget cuts, you know. But next year, for sure.”

Molly nods and smiles. _She’s turning into a better liar_. Sherlock would be proud.

After a while, John and Lestrade visit. Lestrade has reason to, after all; crime doesn’t stop just because Sherlock isn’t turning his hand to solving it. They stand on opposite sides of a cadaver while Molly removes the heart. _Fitting_ , she thinks.

“Anything unusual?” Lestrade’s voice bounces off the walls; when Molly glances up he looks pale and wan. _His wife left him_ , she remembers now. She wants to ask but doesn’t and all she can think is that Sherlock wouldn’t hesitate to ask.

Molly weighs the oft-discussed organ. _Why do people write about the human heart the way they do? Chambers and veins, arteries and capillaries and all that blood. What it does is remarkable but no less remarkable than the liver or the kidneys, the lungs or the brain. So what preoccupies people so much, with the human heart?_

“Molly?” Lestrade prompts. “Anything unusual?”

Molly stares at the scale. “Normal weight for her age and height. What happened again?”

“No idea.” Lestrade shrugged. “Parents came to visit from up north, found her dead in her flat. They did say her partner had moved out, taken a job that took them away.”

Molly stares at the heart on the scale, sure she can see shadows there, spots and marks. “A broken heart.” She whispers to herself. “She died of a broken heart.”

When she glances up, Lestrade’s looking at her with the same expression you’d reserve for an animal about to be put down. Molly clears her throat and wants to wipe her mouth until she remembers that her hands are bloody.

“Haven’t seen you around here much since, well … you know.”

“Donovan and Anderson need more morgue experience.” Lestrade’s mouth settles into a firm line. “How have you been? Haven’t seen you since the funeral.”

“Fine. You?”

“Fine.” Lestrade stares at Sherlock’s chair. He touches the leather back, fingers on the fabric. “I’m divorced now, finally.”

Molly stares at the heart and wants to cry. “I’m really sorry.”

“Me too. Sometimes, I mean. We hadn’t been happy for a long time. Its for the best, I think. I love her, but she made me miserable, and I think its time I stopped doing things that made me miserable.”

Molly blinks away tears and thinks about the mug in her drawer. _I wish I was as strong as you_.

###

Lestrade and John must have been talking, because John calls her one night, just as she’s about the start a night shift. “How about lunch one day this week? My treat, I haven’t seen you for ages.”

Molly picks a Turkish place that she’s been to before, its close to work and not too expensive and John hugs her very hard when he sees her.

“How are you?”

John stares at the menu for a few seconds before he looks her in the eye and says, “Fine.”

 _He doesn’t look fine_ , Molly thinks. _He looks sad_. Grief wears John like he’s tried on Sherlock’s coat. He’s grown a moustache that’s absolutely terrible and makes him look ten years older, and his hands shake when he takes a sip of water.

“How are you?”

Molly nods and wonders if its too early for a glass of wine. “Fine.”

John nods and smiles, but there’s little joy in it. “Now we’ve both established how fine we are, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

They talk until their food arrives and over chicken and lamb and couscous John tells her about his job, a nice, easy, very normal job in a GP surgery not too far from here. He talks about his flat in a way that lets Molly know he isn’t living in Baker Street anymore, and she feels very sad at the idea that Mrs Hudson is alone again. But he’s met someone, John says as they order pastries and strong coffee. Mary, her name is. She’s nice and funny and normal and when John talks about her, his smile is real and genuine for the first time.

“You’ll have to meet her.”

“I’d like that.”

“What about you, Molly?” He says as he pays for their lunch, true to his word. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Molly smiles and looks at the floor. _Ask a silly question, why don’t you? Don’t you know that Sherlock Holmes has ruined me for life? But of course you do, how couldn’t you? Everyone knows that, except for him_. “No. No, there’s no-one.”

John’s smile is genuine. Molly’s forgotten how easy he is to talk to. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not really the right time, you know. Have you heard anything from Mycroft?”

A shadow of grief flashes over John’s face. “No.” He says at length. “But I see a lot of black town cars on my street than there really should be.”

Molly smiles. She wants to say _I know that feeling_ , but how can she? In John’s eyes, she’s the lovelorn pathologist that Sherlock humiliated at the Christmas party. She doesn’t count, isn’t that what she told Sherlock?

 _You count, Molly_ ; God, she can almost hear that voice, close her eyes and feel that sharp cheek pressed against hers, no hint of stubble. He was a man who liked a close shave, cutthroat razor, probably. She can imagine that. _You’ve always counted_.

“Let’s do this again.” John touches her arm and squeezes. “Its been too long.”

On impulse, Molly takes a cab to Baker Street, stands outside number 221 and stares at the black door. At Christmas she had shivered on this step, cold in her dress. Later, on that same night, she stood and waited for a cab with hot tears on her face. She knocks once and waits for someone to answer.

Mrs Hudson greets her with tears and pulls her inside. Her living room is warm and inviting and she makes Molly tea in a mug that she can wrap her whole hand around. They sit by the fire in old, comfortable chairs and Molly is suddenly struck by the sudden, indescribably urge to go home, not to her flat but her home, her parents’ home just outside the M25 where the snow would cover the garden and she and her brother and sister would make snowmen until they were blue with cold, and retreat inside to warm themselves by the fire.

Her parents haven’t lived in that house for years. Another family live there now, some plastic surgeon and his wife. Molly went there once, not long after her dad went into a hospice and her mum downsized into residential accommodation. She stood on the other side of the leafy road and watched another family make snowmen while her dad lay dying in a hospice. Now her mum has bingo nights and takes weekend trips to Llandudno and her dad is cold in the ground and someone else lives in their house. Whoever said that you couldn’t go home again was more right than they knew.

She lets Mrs Hudson prattle away, ashamed that she’s only half-listening, but the older woman seems glad of the company and Molly’s glad of it too, if she’s being honest. An island of one is no island at all, just a rock in the middle of the ocean, waiting to sink. _Sherlock was like that too_ , she thinks. He craved company, even if it was someone to show off to or even belittle. He was comfortable with death but also with life, with the living people whose brains moved so much slower than his. It makes her sad, that he never slowed down enough to appreciate the good things in life; a sunrise, a sunset, a kiss from a lover or comfort from a friend. It makes her more sad than she can say.

“I haven’t rented it out.” Mrs Hudson says after a while. “Couldn’t bear the thought of someone else having it.”

“What about the rent?”

Mrs Hudson shakes her head and looks a little bashful. “His brother. He pays it. Said it was the least he could do. Even offered to get the bullet holes in the wall fixed, but I wouldn’t let him. Would … would you like to see it?”

 _Would I?_ Molly’s first reaction is an emphatic yes, but now she’s not so sure. Somehow, the idea of standing in John and Sherlock’s old home, now covered in dust and left to decay, doesn’t feel right. “No.” She shakes her head. “No, that’s alright.”

Its dark and raining when Molly leaves the house, and once, just once, Molly would have been grateful to see that black car outside, even if it did mean putting up with Mycroft and his smug smiles and faintly amused glances. The rain has taken all the cabs so she jumps on a bus without looking at the destination and prays that it takes her somewhere near to the hospital. Its packed full of tired, irritable commuters and the windows are misted right up. Someone’s drawn a heart on the window and Molly stares at it until the condensation makes it weep, long tears that drip down, into the sil.

When she looks up she’s being watched by a man opposite her, tall and slender, similarly built to Sherlock but with a shock of bright red hair and a pair of trendy jeans and trainers. He blinks an insolent green gaze back at her and she feels his eyes move with her when she finally gets off the bus and makes the short walk to St. Bart’s.

It’s a busy night and Molly’s dead on her feet by the time her shift finally ends. Its still dark when she leaves the hospital and she finds enough change at the bottom of her bag to spring for a cab. Her eyes droop closed as soon as she gets home, but all she came smell is dead bodies and chemicals so she stands under the shower for a long time, her skin wrinkled and puckered when she finally gets out.

Her bedroom is dark and slightly cool when she walks in there in nothing but pyjamas. _That’s strange_ , Molly thinks as she presses a hand to the radiator. _This room should be warm_.

“I opened a window, to get inside.” That voice; God, Molly almost passes out at that voice.

He steps out of the shadow, face backlit by the moonlight. He’s barely altered, even months later. The only thing missing is his coat and scarf. And that hat, Lord that ridiculous hat. He stares at her while she collects herself, head cocked to one side.

“You look tired.”

“I’ve just finished my shift.”

“You looked tired before, on the bus. Are you getting enough sleep? Mycroft tells me you’re up for a promotion, better get the sleep in while you can.”

 _The bus_. Molly touches her chest, feels her heart beat. _Those eyes_. “The man on the bus, opposite me.”

Sherlock smiles, like he’s proud of her. “Very good.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I need somewhere to stay, while I’m in London. Baker Street’s out, so is Mycroft’s place. You’re the only one who knows that I’m alive.” He turns to look at her, the comment tossed over his shoulder like an afterthought. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

Molly stares blankly at her bed, the only bed in the flat. “How long?”

“Just a night or two.” Sherlock removes his jacket and his dark shirt sucks in the moonlight. “I’m happy to sleep on the sofa, its no trouble-“

“No!” Molly’s voice comes out as a squeak. “No, you have the bed.”

###

Having him here is like having a ghost in her apartment. Molly feels, rather than sees his presence; a flash of coat here, a shirt sleeve there. _Is this what it was like when he lived with John? No_ , she quickly decides. She’d been to Baker Street, with the skull on the mantel and the body parts in the fridge and the mess everywhere. _This is different_. He’s like a shadow in her flat, but a shadow that doesn’t stick close to her body. He comes and goes and she feels it, but doesn’t see it, not until one night when she comes home from work in the rain that sings a gentle lullaby against the window. That night, she’ll come to think of it, later.The night where everything changed.

Its raining, raining heavily. Some people call it driving rain, others torrential. Whatever it is, its strong and comes down like an anvil dropped from the sky. The drops are heavy and long and the night is black and orange from the street lights and Molly’s soaked when she gets in because she didn’t have enough money for a cab and had to wait for the bus. Her coat comes away easily enough but her clothes beneath are soaked, soaked and stuck to her body like another layer of skin. She toes off her shoes, hangs up her coat next to a long, black coat. _His coat_. She shivers, just at the thought. _He’s here_.

The flat is still and quiet, except for the rain. That funny orange-black light comes through the windows. _He hasn’t closed the curtains. Is he even here?_ She looks in the kitchen, the living room, but there’s no sign of him. Only when she goes into her bed does she see him, asleep on her bed, the other side to hers. _Her bed_. Her heart lurches. She’s such a teenager, around him, tongue-tied and fumbling for her words. He’s asleep, chest rising and falling. She’s never seen him so still before. Her feet are silent on the floor as she takes one step, then another.

 _I just want to see him_ , she thinks. _Just once, look at him while he’s still and quiet, when nothing hurtful can come out of that beautiful mouth_. He’s different, when he’s asleep. Not peaceful, exactly, just … quieter. Less manic. She’s seen him when he’s having one of his manic days, marching into her lab like he owned the place, John in hot pursuit with an apology on his face and in his mouth. Sherlock’s cruel, when he’s manic, cruel because he’s bored and has no criminals to pick apart, so he picks apart anyone else, instead. But now he’s asleep there’s no cruelty save for the fact that she loves him, and he doesn’t love her back. He’s just Sherlock, and she just wants to look.

When her hands find his hair, his eyes jerk open.

“I’m sorry.” She snatches her hands away from those lush, thick, dark curls. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

His hand grabs her wrist, turns it. “Your heart rate’s elevated. Pumping like a steam train.” His voice is very quiet, almost silent against the rain. Usually he’s so loud but this, this is almost a caress. “Why did you do that?”

“I shouldn’t have, I’m really sorry-“

“I didn’t ask for an apology.” Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on her, still and unblinking. “I asked why you did it.”

“I just … I just …” Molly sighs and is so embarrassed, she wants to cry. “I just wanted to.”

“Why?” Molly stares at him, trying to work him out. Is he being deliberately cruel, or just curious? She’d rather think him ignorant than cruel, even though she knows that thinking that way makes her really, really stupid, but she says, “Scientific curiosity.” There. He’ll understand that, won’t he? Boil lust and love and infatuation down to scientific curiosity. “It, um … it always looks so soft. Your hair, I mean.”

“And was your hypothesis correct?” Sherlock stares at her.

 _You have no idea_. “No.” Molly wants to get out of this bedroom and take a long, cold shower. She wants to stay and look Sherlock in the eye and see what else he says. She’s going insane, especially when she then says, “Its softer, than I thought it would be.”

Sherlock nods, lets go of her wrist. Her hand falls limply to the bed. They stare at each other for what feels like a long time, even though Molly’s sure it must only be ten or twenty seconds, and then Sherlock’s hand is in her hair, pulling at the elastic in her hair.

“What are you doing?”

“Testing a hypothesis of my own.” Sherlock’s hands are in the heavy, damp strands. “Your hair always looks so flat and limp, no matter what you do with it. Since you were so surprised by my hair, I decided to test my own hypothesis.”

Molly’s glad that Sherlock isn’t holding her wrist anymore, because her heart is racing so hard she thinks its going to explode. “And was your hypothesis correct?”

“No.” Sherlock’s surprised, she can see that. He must be surprised, because it isn’t hidden, on his face. She can see it, even in the dark. “No, its not.” He sits up a little straighter in her bed, wearing silk pyjamas (silk? The man is presumed dead and hunting a terror network and he’s still got silk pyjamas?) and staring at Molly like he’s seeing her for the first time. “Why did you help me?”

Sherlock looks at her out of the corner of his eye, like he’s confused or … curious, yes, that’s the word. Molly’s never seen Sherlock look at her like that, before. He’s looked at her and seen her, but not her, not really. He’s tossed out observations like you’d toss out unwanted rubbish. She’s interesting to him, but only in the way that she gets him bodies and body parts and coffee in-between. But now, he’s looking at her, genuinely curious. She’s glad its dark because she can feel her cheeks flush. Sherlock Holmes is interested in me. “Why did you help me?” Sherlock’s watching her very closely. “Why are you still helping me?”

“Because you asked me to.”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. In this light, he looks tired. How can he not be? Molly finds life exhausting but thinks that death might be worse. The promise of eternal rest? That sounds like Sherlock’s idea of a nightmare, hers too, if she’s honest. So pretending to be dead? That must be the most tiring thing of all. “No, that’s not it. That’s part of it, yes, but that’s not it, not really. So tell me, what is it?”

“There’s nothing more.” Molly shakes her head so hard it feels like its going to fall off. “You asked me for my help, and I like helping you, helping people, I mean. I wanted to help you, and I said I would, so when you needed my help, of course I was going to help you.”

Sherlock stares at her for a long time. “You’re utterly without guile, aren’t you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” Sherlock doesn’t blink. “Your pulse is racing but that’s probably because I’m in your bed, not because you’re lying. Its been a while since you had a man in your bed, I can smell it on the sheets. Detergent, probably washed a few days ago, but your smell, and your smell only. You offered me the bed even though the couch is uncomfortable, and now the idea of me being here makes your heart race, not because you’re lying.” He pauses, stares a little harder. “I don’t think you’ve ever told a lie in your whole life. I don’t think you’re capable of it. Most people are terrible liars but they try anyway, but you, you and John, you don’t.”

Molly blinks so many times its like her lids have taken leave of their senses. She stands up and backs away from the bed, sure that she’s left a damp patch on the sheets. “I’m going to have a shower.”

She runs the water hot, glad for the noise and the mist filling the air. Something lazy uncurls in the pit of her stomach, lazy and hot and slick. Desire, she thinks as she gets into the shower. That’s how it is with Sherlock. Not the giddy schoolgirl-with-a-crush feeling she gets when they’re in the lab, oh no; this, this feeling, uncurling after seeing Sherlock in her bed, hair mussed from sleep, gripping her wrist and staring into her eyes, voice soft and quiet, there isn’t anything schoolgirlish or giddy about how she feels. This is hot, wet, adult desire, and it bleeds through Molly like fire in the blood.

Sherlock’s asleep when she comes out of the bathroom, asleep on her sofa. She crawls into bed and smells the pillow, still warm from his head. He’s gone before she wakes up.

She doesn’t see him for four days, but his brother is waiting for her, one day after work.

“My brother’s been to see you.” Molly stares at Mycroft, so fixated on an imaginary stain on his shoe. They’re so fresh and new that she can smell the leather, not even creased at the top, where the toes meet the feet. Does he walk anywhere, or does he spend his days sitting, tapping his feet?

“How do you know that?”

Mycroft smiles and eventually gives her his full attention. “Be careful, with him. And with yourself.”

###

It becomes a habit of his, to sneak into her flat at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes he sleeps on the couch, other times the floor. One night, she finds him curled up at the edge of her bed like he’s a cat, a cat with beautiful cheekbones and perfect hair. At night Molly dreams of him, lying in her bed doing nothing but simply being there with her, touching her hair and asking her questions that she can’t lie about, but after that night, that first night, he’s never touched her; no peck on the cheek, no fingers measuring a heart rate. He hasn’t even looked at her.Then comes that night. The Night, she calls it.

He’s been declared dead for six months, creeping into her flat for the past four. He never asks about 221B or John or Mrs Hudson or even Lestrade, but it must be hard for him, being so cut off from them. She and Mycroft are his only connection to his old life, the only people he talks to who aren’t murderers or terrorists or psychopaths. He’s a social creature and this, not having someone to show off to, to talk to, to listen to his sulking and ranting and general _Sherlockness_ , must be excruciating.

Its raining again when he comes to her, opening the door even though she’s never given him a key (offered, but declined with a stare that said _do you really think that’s a good idea?_ ). It’s the same rain as that other night, when the world was orange and black and the rain made love to the windows and Sherlock touched her hair; even the thought of it still gives Molly chills.

“Molly.” His voice is rough and halting; when she wakes up he’s looming over her, wincing. She sits upright right away. If he’s wincing he must be hurt.

“What is it?”

“Took a fall, I’m afraid.” He sinks down into the chair she keeps by the bed, covered in clothes. “You don’t happen to have a first aid kit, do you?”

They sit in the bathroom, Sherlock on the chair, Molly standing over him. The first aid kit is one she’s stocked herself, over the years, in a little red canvas bag that shines in the light like blood.

“Some of this is from Bart’s.” Sherlock’s peering into the case while Molly presses gauze to the rather large cut on his head. “Their restock from three years ago.”

“You need stitches.”

“So get on with it.”

“I haven’t stitched up a living person in years.”

“But you are a doctor, aren’t you?” Sherlock stares up at her. “Or are the diplomas you keep hidden away just props you bought on the internet?”

“It isn’t a good idea to insult the person giving you medical attention, Sherlock. Or the person letting you sleep on their couch whenever you feel like it.”

“I wasn’t insulting you.” Sherlock says. “I’ve seen your hands in the morgue, you’re as steady as John is when he’s shooting people.”

Molly sighs. She’s very, very tired and has to be in work in less than four hours. “I’m going to assume that’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

“I thought that sentiment was overrated.”

“I’m not being sentimental, I’m stating facts. And you have a steady hand and good surgical skills. So if I need stitches, then kindly administer them before you fall asleep on your feet.”

“Fine.”

Molly takes a needle and surgical thread. “Hold still.”

“I am holding still.”

“No, you’re staring at my first aid kit, making a list of what’s missing. You’re wriggling.”

“I do not-“ Sherlock stares up at her with those fierce, pale eyes, and glares. “-wriggle.”

“You’re wriggling like a worm on a hook. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles.”

“Nothing of the sort. Although you are missing several key items from this first aid kit.”

“You have had stitches before, haven’t you?”

“If you’re going to do this more often, Molly, you must really get a better kit than this. I’ll make you a list, or get Mycroft to get you whatever you want. If it works for the British Army then I suppose its adequate for what I need-“

“Sherlock.” Molly takes his chin and holds him still and his mouth snaps shut. “Stop talking. Stop moving. Unless you want stitches that look like a child did it?”

Sherlock watches her start to work and its all she can do not to look at his eyes. So she focuses on the pale skin on his forehead, essential, really, if she’s going to try to stitch it up. There’s no noise between them, just the rain outside and the orange-black light through the curtainless window.

“There.” She releases a long breath. “All done. Don’t you want to check the stitches in the mirror?” She says when he’s still looking at her, fifteen seconds later (yes, she counted.)

“You have a steady hand.” Sherlock doesn’t blink, just looks at her. “And your heart rate stayed steady, the whole time. You were completely calm. You pressed your mouth together, why did you do that?”

“Did I?” Molly shrugs. “I didn’t notice.”

“Yes, you did. You do it in the morgue sometimes, too. Mike Stamford used to click his tongue behind his teeth when he was working, hum the most ghastly tune.” His eyes move to her mouth and Molly prays that he isn’t holding her wrist now because all he’d feel is a massive jump.

She isn’t sure what happens next, only that it happened. Sherlock kissed her. _Sherlock Bloody Holmes_ kissed her, in her bathroom, with a weeks’ worth of dirty washing on the floor because her washing basket was overflowing. And not a peck on the cheek either, a full-on, going-for-broke snog, hands on either side of her face, lips pressed hard against hers.

After that, things are doubly blurry, a tangle of arms and legs on her bathroom floor, not even a towel put down to cushion the fall. Clothes come off, shirts and pyjamas and trousers and underwear and then they naked on the floor and the cold tiles are pressing into Molly’s bare shoulder but she doesn’t care because _Sherlock Bloody Holmes_ is kissing her like the world’s ending, naked between her thighs, hot and slick inside of her.

They make it to the bed, eventually, and Molly dozes into a fitful sleep, sore and tired, so tired. When her alarm goes off, she rolls over to empty, cold sheets and not the slightest bit of surprise. _Of course he left_ , she thinks as she smells the sheets and wishes she could smell him. _Why would he stay?_ Still, she gets up and makes herself a cup of tea and doesn’t notice what’s on the table until she’s about to leave.

“What the bloody hell is this?” She picks up the extra needles and surgical thread, the small vials, clearly marked and stamped with Bart’s logo.

There’s a note, a scruffy hand on elegant, heavy, watermarked paper. _To complete your first aid kit. SH_. She glances at the clock. St. Bart’s won’t be open for another hour. _How the bloody hell did he get that stuff from a closed hospital? And where the hell did he get this paper?_

She goes to work and is on autopilot except when the door opens and its like her head’s on a swivel. She sees that dark coat and dark curls everywhere and when she does all she can feel is lips and tongue everywhere, hands and skin and breathy moans. _Focus, Molly, focus_.

She allows herself to think about it as she’s stitching up the Y incisions on today’s autopsies. Its mindless work, she’s done so many now that she could do them blindfolded, and she won’t neglect the dead just because the living are proving troublesome. The biggest question, though, the one she can’t understand, is _why?_ Why did Sherlock kiss her? Why did they tumble into bed? Why didn’t she ask questions?

At least one of those answers was easy, she realises as she sews up the first autopsy of the day. She didn’t ask questions because she didn’t want to, because Sherlock was kissing her and taking off her clothes, and then kissing her where the clothes had once been, and she wanted him to. She didn’t ask questions because – shamefully – she didn’t want him to stop.She shakes her head, imagining what her mum would say.Guilt prickles her stomach when she thinks about her mother, although she doesn’t know why; the woman’s social life is better than hers and the last she heard, there was a rather spry septuagenarian widower in her residential home who wanted to sit next to her at the bingo.

 _I’ll call her_ , she promises as she weighs hearts and livers, lungs and kidneys and makes notes on a pad. _This weekend, I’ll call her, call my sister even though she does live in Australia, and go and visit Dad in the cemetery. Maybe he’ll tell me what to do_. It breaks her heart a little, that her dad never saw her married and settled, the last of them to do it even though she was born first. Sally might live on the other side of the world and Rick’s wife might be a bit of a nag, but at least they’re with someone, families of their own, someone to put down as an emergency contact. Who’s going to come and collect Molly, after some pathologist has weighed up her bits and bobs, marked them all as ‘Within Normal Limits’ on the paperwork and pondered their own dismal love life? Its too depressing a thought, so Molly works and works until her brain hurts and Donovan and Anderson both come to ask her for results and tests and she barely hears.

Its Lestrade who makes a dent, harried and wet from the rain that hasn’t stopped. “You look tired, Molly.” He says as he brushes rain water off his jacket. He stares at the body that Molly’s just finishing. “Can’t this one wait until tomorrow?”

Molly stares at the forlorn figure on the morgue table. A young man, a bit younger than her, but much, much prettier, even in death. He’s got high cheekbones that remind her of Sherlock, even if they’re much different. His body was found in an alley, mugged and left for dead. Lestrade’s looking into it but he isn’t hopeful. She catches his eye under the harsh light and knows that she isn’t the only one wishing that Sherlock was here.

“I don’t like to leave them.” Molly makes more notes, inspects an X-Ray under the light. Fractured ribs, a cracked skull; sometimes her job makes her want to cry. “Why are people so cruel to each other?”

Lestrade stares at the boy on the table, his face troubled. “Most murders are done by someone the victim knows, friend or family. So not only have I got to tell the family that their son’s dead, but I’ve then got to ask them where they were between midnight and four am last night.”

 _I know where I wa_ s, Molly thinks, a blush staining her cheeks. “People are the cruellest to the ones they love the most. Why is that, do you think?”

Lestrade shrugs. “If I knew that, I’d be a rich man. Call me when the results are ready, yeah?”

“Sure.”

Its only as Molly’ stitching the young man’s Y incision that she asks the first question: why? Why, why, _why?_ “Maybe you can tell me.” Molly says to her companion, the only other person in the morgue. “You’ve got his cheekbones, that model look. Why would someone who looks like you sleep with someone who looks like me?”

###

Ideas float through her head throughout the week. She takes trains, cabs and buses, deals with the dead and the cruel, broken fingers and shredded organs and lots of tests, signs her name so many times that her hand begins to cramp. On Thursday she eats a chicken sandwich that she wasn’t sure was in date; by Friday she’s puking her guts into the toilets and everything with an odour makes her stomach roll. As she’s lying on the floor of the bathroom, sweating and shaking (she hasn’t even cleaned the floor; what a dirty cow she is),thoughts float through her brain.

 _He fancied a shag_. She’s not sure about that. Sherlock’s never expressed an interest in anything with a pulse unless it was interesting to him, and not sexually interesting, either. What kind of a man found murder and mayhem more enticing than a pretty girl or a handsome man?

 _What kind of a woman liked cutting up dead people and weighing and testing their organs?_ Molly hasn’t thought about it that way before. Maybe she and Sherlock are better-suited than she thought.

 _He wanted to say thank you_. Molly heaves again. Not that it wasn’t good, but sleeping with her and then leaving before she woke up was his idea of a thank you, she would have much preferred a box of chocolates.

 _He was lonely_. This one, Molly thinks as she slumps against the sink and cleans her teeth, is probably the best answer she’s going to get. Sherlock doesn’t like people, as a rule, but he does like certain people and she’s halfways convinced herself that she might be one of them. She’s not up there with John and Mrs Hudson, but she’s certainly higher than Donovan and Anderson, maybe even Mycrift or Lestrade. Sherlock doesn’t like people, but he does like the company of certain human beings and he can’t have any of that, now. _So yes_ , she decides, _he was lonely and wanted some comfort. That’s all it was_.

###

Molly’s stomach bug lasts over the weekend and won’t leave. Its almost a week later that she finally feels ready to get out of the apartment and face the world, and true to form, there’s a black car waiting for her.

“Dr Hooper.” Mycroft smiles when she gets in and slams the door shut.

“I hope you’ve got a bin handy.” Molly’s stomach heaves as the car pulls away. “I’ve got a tummy bug and I feel terrible.”

“Yes, you do smell faintly like vomit.” Mycroft looks a little displeased and Molly wants to puke on his upholstery just to spite him.

“What do you want?”

“My brother is overseas at present, won’t be back for some time. He had to leave rather unexpectedly last week, but you were there, so you know that already.”

Molly’s cheeks flush; _just what does Mycroft know, exactly?_ “What do you want?”

“Nothing, just wanted to see how you were getting on.” Mycroft examines his nails, better-manicured than Molly’s. “I understand he’s been using your flat as a bit of a bolthole. Obviously, he couldn’t be seen anywhere near my home, but then, he wouldn’t want to be. Flair for the dramatic and all that. Do let me know, if his experiments damage anything. I’ll arrange for it to be replaced immediately.”

Molly glares at him, trying to decipher anything that lives behind the mask, but Mycroft never gives anything away. The car stops outside the park and Molly staggers outside, pleased to be out in the fresh air. She walks the perimeter of the park, breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth. She stares at every tall man that walks past, searching for Sherlock. He’s proved before that he can disguise himself, is he here now, watching her? She hopes not, not when she’s wearing old clothes and is pretty sure that there’s dried vomit in her hair. Eventually she walks back to her flat and collapses into bed.

###

Its been four weeks when Molly notices. Little things, here and there. Her food poisoning never really went away and smells that she once loved now turn her stomach. Her whole body is tender, and now the taste of tea in her mouth makes her lunge for the sink. But its her calendar that finally gives it away. For a girl who passed all her medical exams with flying colours, she’s completely embarrassed that she missed this. Too much time spent with the dead, rather than the living.

Her hands shake as she flips the pages, counting backwards, looking for that little tell-tale red dot. There it is, a bight circle for a gloomy day, six weeks ago. Molly puts down the calendar, hides it under a cushion and scrabbles away from the couch like its on fire. _No, no, no. That’s not possible. Six weeks?_ She can’t believe it.

She runs to the pharmacy, the one she never goes to because the pharmacist was rude to her, once, and Molly had enough people being rude to her work without doing it while she was trying to get a prescription filled, thank you very much.The only kits are in packets of three, two tests apiece. She buys them and pays cash, as if she’s afraid that someone will see her bank statement and automatically deduce what it was for.

She’s really been spending too much time with Sherlock.

She gets back to the flat and guzzles a litre of water, spends fifteen minutes peeing onto sticks. Six sticks, six pink lines. She looks at them all, balanced on her sink, and throws them all in the bin and takes the rubbish out right away. _Right, Molly, because that’s really going to help you. Take out the rubbish and hide the calendar and that will make it all go away_.

 _Pregnant_. Molly rubs her stomach and feels something flare in there, hope and terror and happiness and dismay and then she’s puking in the alley behind her flat like she’s drunk on a Saturday night.

 _Pregnant_. She wipes her mouth and goes upstairs, cleans her teeth and stares at the bathroom floor. She still hasn’t cleaned it, not six weeks later.

 _Pregnant_. She touches her stomach again. Pregnant, with Sherlock Holmes’ child. She starts to giggle before saying, “Well. Shit.”

 

TBC.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The response that I’ve had to this fic has been truly overwhelming. Thank you so much for your reviews etc, they really mean a lot. I should also point out here that I originally envisaged this fic as a one-shot, maybe a three-shot if I really tried. That’s … gone out the window a bit, now! Its taken on a life of its own …. 
> 
> Also, I should point out here that despite access to Google, I don’t have children. So apologies in advance if I’ve got any, some or all of the following wrong.

_Pregnant_. What is she going to do? Molly’s head spins like it’s in the circus. What the bloody hell is she going to do?

She goes back to the alley where her rubbish lives, digs through the bags like a madwoman until she finds them, the six sticks with the little pink line. They’ve faded a little now; does that mean she’s a little less pregnant than she was last night?

“You alright, love?” A woman stands in the alley, well-dressed with hair like something out of an old movie.

Reality comes back to Molly in a rush. _You’re digging through the bins at the back of your house in the middle of the night. What the bloody hell is wrong with you?_

 _I know what’s wrong with me_ , she thinks as she replaces the bin lid and backs away, mumbling “Fine” under her breath. _I’ve been spending too much time with Sherlock. He’d think nothing of rummaging through bins in the middle of the night_.

Back in her flat, she lays the six sticks out on the kitchen table and stares at them, chewing a fingernail. _Pregnant_. There’s decisions to be made, she knows. Questions to be asked and decisions to be made and more questions, questions, always questions. How did this happen? How is she going to tell Sherlock? Could she get a message to Mycroft, get him to tell Sherlock? What will he do, gallop back to London like a knight on a charger? Look at her like she’s nothing to him, like she doesn’t count? Would she even want that? What does Sherlock want? What does _she_ want? _Oh good_ , she can almost hear him say. _You’re finally asking the right questions_.

###

Molly has five days of annual leave yet to take. She calls Mike Stamford at his home and tells him that she’s taking it, effective immediately.

“Are you alright, Molly?”

“Fine.” Molly wipes her mouth and her stomach rolls. _Shouldn’t you be keeping this time for when the baby comes?_ “Just fancied a bit of time off, that’s all. Might go and see my mum.”

God. Her mum. What on earth is her mum going to say to this?

“That sounds nice.” Mike pauses, and Molly can hear his breathing. He sounds like he’s panting. She worries about him, sometimes. He’s getting older before his time and his face was the colour of a fire engine the other day. Terror grips her, convulsively. _What will she do, if he dies?_ All the men in her life seems to leave her, one way or another. “Are you sure you’re alright, Molly?”

“I’m fine. Just need a bit of space, that’s all.”

“I mean, I know that after everything that happened … it takes time for this stuff to sink in. And you were very fond of Sherlock, I know that.”

Molly clutches her stomach and wants to be sick again. _I think everyone knows that_. “I’ll see you in a week, Mike.”

She takes the train to her mum’s residential home. It’s a nice place in a leafy part of London, a white and brick building shaped like a large horseshoe. Molly’s mum’s been there years and seems to like it well enough. Certainly its done wonders for her social life; now she does bingo nights and quiz nights and road trips, tea and biscuits in the afternoon. There’s a large reading room that gets all the sun, but Molly never goes in there because its full of old men reading detective novels and it makes her think of her dad so much that her heart starts to bleed. The front door opens and a cluster of women come out, short grey hair and pastel colours. Her mum is there, laughing and joking with women she’s only known for a few years, her face years younger than she really is. She can hear her mum’s voice now. _You should have called, love. I don’t sit in anymore, waiting for life to happen to me. My hourglass is almost empty but I’ve still got a few good years left and I’m not going to sit indoors watching the sand trickle out_.

 _Life is so strange_ , Molly thinks as she stands on the other side of the road and peers. Twenty years ago, her mum would have been considered ancient, washed-up, done for. Now she spends more money on getting her hair done than Molly does, wears jeans (jeans! Molly never saw her mum in jeans, growing up, not once) and trendy knitwear and takes trips all over the country. Its like she’s had a new lease of life. Or that she’s decided that life’s too short to waste away. People can’t choose whether or not to get old, but they can chose whether or not to have children, and standing there, watching her mum get into her friend’s little red car, Molly rubs her stomach and feels strangely calm. Just what is she going to do? And perhaps more importantly, what does she want to do?

She takes the bus west, a little bit further away from London where the sound of the ring road is barely a murmur. That’s why they picked it for her dad. He loved London but hated the traffic and the noise. She gets off the bus a few stops early and walks the rest of the way, pleased to feel the fresh air and glad for the exercise, even if her stomach is doing backflips. There’s a small gate leading into the cemetery, half-hidden by the bushes. Molly imagines that in the dark and the winter, this place would be creepy, a place where the misadventures of the world gathered until one of them ended up on her table. But the bushes clear and then she’s in a cemetery, neat grass and neater headstones, rows and rows and rows of white, black and grey headstones. She doesn’t like cemeteries, which is strange given her chosen profession. Has she ever visited any of her cadavers, once they’re buried? Even for her, that would be a little too sentimental, but maybe she should. So many of them are misadventures, people found dead in alleys, dumped in rubbish bins. One came to her once, in pieces. He’d been cut up and put in a drain. No-one ever came to claim him. Many people don’t, so these little misadventures sit until they’re burned in the big crematoria with the tall tower that stretches into the sky. Someone’s daughter, son, mother, father, sister, brother, and no-one collects them. They don’t count. _Maybe I will visit them now_ , Molly thinks. _Just to show them that to someone, they count_.

Her dad is near the church, a simple grey headstone with black letters. _Different to Sherlock’s headstone_ , Molly thinks as she touches the cold, wet marble with shaking hands. She’s never been to her dad’s grave without ending up in tears. She loves her mum, loves her very, very much, but she _loved_ her dad, loved him like it was impossible to love anyone else. She loved his cardigans and the little crop of grey hair that ringed his forehead. She loved his reading room, with the piles and piles of books, the glasses that he’d push down his nose to look at her, the way he’d pat her hand and tell her that anything, no matter how bad or dire or grim, would always look better after a good nights’ sleep and cup of hot, sweet tea or coffee. He used to take his coffee the way Sherlock does, black, two sugars. In fact, when she thinks about it, his room in their house was a bit like Sherlock’s, wall-to-wall bookshelves, haphazardly-placed papers and mugs. All that was missing was the skull on the mantelpiece.

 _He’d like Sherlock_ , she thinks, hopes. They were similar, in their thinking. Her dad was kinder than Sherlock in many ways, wrapped the truth up in a pretty box, given to her like a gift to unwrap, but like Sherlock he’d get to the heart of the matter much earlier than she would. He was the one who listened to the doctor’s prognosis and asked for hospice care while Molly and her mum were still trying to process the finality of _terminal cancer_. He was the one who would laugh and joke while the treatments took his body and his mind, who jollied Molly along when she went to see him and couldn’t face the idea of him just not being there. He was the one who made her look him in the eye and promise that she was going to be alright, afterwards. That even if she didn’t know it, she was going to get up and breathe in and out and remember that in death there was also life.

Molly stares at the headstone for a long time. What is it that she wants to say? She’s been here so many times, told this sad patch of earth so many things. Her dad is well-acquainted with Sherlock now, having heard her rant and moan and cry about him on more than one occasion. He knows about Sherlock’s comments about her mouth ( _my mouth_ , he’s say. _Your mum always liked it when I grew a moustache, to hide my lips. I preferred you clean-shaven_ , Molly would reply), about her hair ( _that’s all your mother, poor girl_ ), about her dress and that horrible, terrible Christmas party. She’s never told him anything else, not about the fall or Moriarty or Sherlock being gone. In fact, she hasn’t been to see her dad since that night on her bathroom floor. _I really do need to clean that floor_.

“I miss you, Dad.” Molly looks at her stomach, still flat but with a little pouch full of biscuits. She’s always been a bugger for digestive biscuits. No more processed food for her, now. No booze, no caffeine, no biscuits, no fun. She may as well start sitting on a lily pad and munching celery sticks. “I miss you so much. I wish you were here to tell me what to do. Mum … I can’t talk to Mum.” She says in answer to the question she knows he’s sure to ask. “Not the way I can talk to you. She never listened the way you do. And its not because you’re dead, you smart arse.” She smiles at that and wipes away tears. “I’m going to be thirty-five in a few years. All of my friends and Rick and Sally are both married with kids. I want to have children. I just hoped that the dad might be around.”

 _What about the dad?_ She can hear her dad say. _What about your job? How are you going to cope? London’s no place to raise a family. A baby needs space and grass, somewhere to run and play_.

"You think I shouldn’t have it?” Molly’s gripped with panic like she’s never known before.

_I didn’t say that. I’m just telling you to think about the practicalities before your imagination runs away with you. Having kids is hard, Moll. Having them alone is harder still. A baby’s not like a pair of shoes you can take back if you decide you don’t like them or if they blister your feet. Its not a book you can donate to the library once you’ve read it. Once you have it, that’s it._

“I love him.” Molly wipes away more tears. “I love him. I know that he doesn’t love me back. I don’t even know if he knows how to love anyone, never mind someone like me. But I love him, and we made this baby, him and me. It’s a little bit of him and me together, inside of me. Is it really that terrible, for me to want to keep him?”

 _Steady now_ , she can hear her dad say. _It might be a girl_.

Molly smiles, and laughs through her tears. _I guess I’ve answered the most important question of all, then_.

###

She should have expected it, but there’s a black car waiting for her when she leaves the cemetery.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Molly gets in the car without complaint, knowing it to be pointless, anyway. “Because even you can’t be that good, not unless you’ve bugged my rubbish bin.”

Its not Mycroft in the car, this time. Instead, it’s a tall, beautiful young woman with dark hair and a faint smile, who doesn’t look up from her mobile phone. _Anthea_ , Molly assumes. John’s told Sherlock all about her and even Molly isn’t above eavesdropping when ‘Sherlock’ and ‘beautiful woman’ are mentioned in the same sentence.

She has a sudden flash of the woman, _the woman_. The one Sherlock identified on that table when her head was putty. The way he’d looked at her, the sadness in his eyes. Molly swallows and makes a fist with her hands.

The car glides along the road like a black swan on a still lake. They get on the M25, heading back into London, come off at an exit that Molly’s never taken before. The houses her are nice, like, really nice, the kind of place royalty or diplomats or celebrities might live. All she sees are gated walls and lots of trees with all-year foliage, here and there the glimpse of a house. Did that one have a moat, or was she seeing things? Did Sherlock and Mycroft grow up in a house like this, surrounded by walls and leaves that were always green? She can imagine it, somehow, a lot easier than she can imagine him growing up in the four-bedroom semi that she did, with its big back garden and other kids jumping over the fence to play. It makes her sad, to think about it. Everything about Sherlock seems to make her sad.

She looks down at her stomach, rubs it a little. _You’re never going to be sad_ , she vows. _Not if I can help it. You might get your looks from your dad, those lovely cheekbones and that beautiful hair, but you’ll never be sad like him. Even if its just the two of us, you’ll want for nothing_.

They reach a dual carriageway and move away from the homes, although Molly’s not familiar with this part of London. Eventually the car stops and a curb that is, most definitely, cleaner and more highly polished than Molly’s bathroom floor, and a man in livery (yes, livery), opens the door for her with a smile. _He’s wearing gloves_ , Molly stares at his hands. _He’s wearing bloody white cotton gloves_.

She stares up at the building. It reminds her of Downing Street, that row of white brick and pillars with the black front door. There’s a brass plaque on the wall, words written in cursive, although its too far away for her to read properly. _Oh, Mycroft, where have you brought me?_

“Good afternoon, Miss.” He smiles and ushers her towards a door, a huge thing of brass and glass, tucked away under a porch flanked by pillars that are so white they’re almost blinding. “If you’ll just follow me.”

Inside, all Molly sees is dark wood, on the walls and the ceiling, the panels on the staircase. The floor is parquet, hundreds of little black and white tiles arranged diagonally, no doubt much cleaner than Molly’s floor. She really should do some housework if she’s going to keep this baby, can’t have it growing up and thinking its mother is a slovenly cow. _A highly-functioning sociopath for a father and a mother who spends her evenings rummaging around in rubbish bins and can’t even be bothered to clean her bathroom floor_. She almost wants to giggle.

They go upstairs; Molly’s trainers are soft against the carpet, her hand light on the bannister. The whole building is quiet, utterly silent. _Just where is she?_ They walk down a long corridor and another door is opened for her, and then she finds herself in the kind of room she can imagine is used for all kinds of backdoor political dealings: a huge mahogany mantelpiece with a portrait of the Queen above, a roaring fire in the hearth below. High-backed, incredibly uncomfortable chairs on either side of the fire, no doubt warm from the blaze. There’s a huge table in the middle of the room, piles of paper and a map of the country spread on top of it; Molly half wants to look to see if there’s little metal soldiers on the ground and boats in the harbour, one of those sticks she’s seen on the television when colonels and generals want to move troops around. The whole place smells like cigars and money and Molly has never felt more out of place in her life.

Mycroft’s on the phone when she comes in, an old-fashioned phone with a cord to the handle and a red flashing light. God, its like something out of a James Bond film. He ends the call as soon as she comes in, comes towards her and stares down on her. “Good of you to come, Doctor Hooper. Molly.”

 _He knows_. Molly freezes. _He bloody knows. How does he know? Is there anything the man doesn’t know?_ “Why am I here?”

“Tea? Decaf, naturally.”

Mycroft has a trolley with tea and sandwiches, crusts cut off, naturally. A minor official in the civil service just wouldn’t countenance having sandwiches with the crusts. _Pity_ , Molly thinks as her mouth waters. _The crusts are my favourite part_. She spies a miniature Bakewell tart that looks handmade and snatches it up, stuffs the whole thing in her mouth before either she or Mycroft can say anything.

“Perhaps some water, to wash that down?” A glass is presented to her with a gold rim, Molly forces it down and really, really wants to give him an almond, icing smile but thinks better of it. “How are you feeling, Molly? Did your visit with your father give you comfort?”

Mycroft gestures that she sit, but she ignores that chairs by the fire in favour of one of the hard-backed dining chairs next to a collection of biographies of British Prime Ministers. Molly finishes her water and sheds her coat. She’s sweating and wonders if Mycroft could open a window.

“So you know, then?”

“Of course I know.” Mycroft pours tea for himself, adds two sugar cubes and the smallest spot of milk. “I know rather a lot about you, Molly Hooper, and once you began to have regular contact with my brother, I made sure that I knew as much as I could.” He sits in the chair opposite her and stirs his tea. “I wish I could say that I missed my father, the way you do. It might make me a better child than I am. But we are what we are, I suppose, and despite his and my best efforts, our relationship is rather different, to the one that you had with your father. Please accept my condolences for his passing.”

“What is this place, and why am I here?”

“You’re carrying the only Holmes heir.” Mycroft stares at the fire and for the first time since Molly’s known him, he looks sad. “Mummy always wanted grandchildren, a house of little children to run and play. Sherlock and I thought it was a ghastly idea. I don’t think Mummy ever thought that he would be the one to-“ He stops and stirs his tea some more. “You intend to keep it? The child, I mean?”

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business.”

“Ordinarily, I would agree. But Sherlock is my brother and my brother made many enemies, enemies who would pay dearly to find out that a pathologist at St. Bart’s hospital was carrying his child.”

Molly stands up, temper flaring. “If you’re trying to threaten me-“

“Sit down, please.” Mycroft shakes his head and gives her that smug smile. “Of course I’m not threatening you. I am trying to offer you my protection.”

Molly reaches for another cake, a Battenberg that’s probably homemade. She bits into the marzipan and groans. _God, she loves cake_. “Does Sherlock know?”

“He’s overseas at present, not able to be contacted. Why?” Mycroft examines his nails. In Molly’s short acquaintance with him, he’s spent more time inspecting himself than inspecting her. “Do you want him to know?”

“Of course I bloody want him to know!” Molly finishes the cake and rubs her stomach.

“And what makes you think he’ll care?” Mycroft says, although not unkindly. “Surely by now you must be aware that my brother considers sentiment overrated and dangerous?”

Molly stands up, tears hot on her eyes. The one thing she dares not do is cry in front of Sherlock Holmes’ sodding brother. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“Sit down, Molly.”

“You’ve got a bloody cheek, you know.” Molly’s tugging her coat a little tighter around her body, half glancing-around, sure that she’s put something down and she doesn’t know where she’s left it. “Sending your bloody assistant to my dad’s cemetery, interrupting me, following me, rifling through my bloody bins! Have you not got a life, or is running a country not enough of a hobby for you? What?” She says when she sees Mycroft smiling at her. “What’s so bloody funny?”

“It appears I underestimated you, Molly. I can see now, why my brother likes you. Aside from your access to the morgue, obviously.”

“Its Dr Hooper.” Molly sniffs, collecting herself. She grabs a Bakewell and stuffs it in her pocket. If she’s taking the Tube back from wherever this place is, she’s not being hungry. “Just because my baby’s going to be your niece or nephew doesn’t mean you can call me Molly.”

“Alright. Dr Hooper. Please, sit down.” Mycroft looks up at her, unblinking. “Or we can go somewhere else, if you prefer? Pick the place, I really don’t mind.”

Molly tilts her chin, smiles a little. _He’s desperate_ , she realises. _I mention the niece or nephew, and suddenly he caves. He’s desperate for this baby. He won’t admit it, but he is_. “Alright. But we’re taking a cab. And leave the bloody umbrella here.”

###

She takes him to a greasy café not far from where she grew up. It’s a small place, full of builders and plasterers, men with hands that were used to hard work, men like her dad, not men like Mycroft, with soft hands who wouldn’t know one end of a hammer from the other. There’s one or two college students, a handful of kids from the school down the road, the same one that Molly went to; she flinches when she sees the bottle green, woollen blazers and pleated skirts. The place smells like a deep fat fryer and strong tea. Mycroft looks like he’s about to combust. _How does it feel_ , Molly wonders, _to be so thoroughly disarmed?_

They take a seat in the window, knees bumping against each other in the small space. The window is full of condensation that drips onto the floor; Molly sheds her coat to reveal a woolly jumper that she’s had for years and a shirt with a stain on the collar. She still hasn’t done any washing, either. Mycroft’s wearing a suit that costs more than Molly makes in a year, a red silk tie and cufflinks and a tie pin that look like solid gold, but he takes a seat and stares at Molly with that same blank expression that he reserves for everyone.

“Are you sure that this place is … sanitary, for a woman in your condition?” Mycroft reaches for a paper serviette out of the dispenser, only to find that there aren’t any.

Molly reaches into her pocket, hands him the packet of disinfectant wipes that she keeps there. “Of course it is.” She smiles, and tears prickle her eyes. “My dad brought me here every time we’d go to the cinema, the one across the road.”

Mycroft peers through the glass, covered in fingerprint marks. “There is no cinema across the road.”

“There was, once.” If Molly closes her eyes, she’s sure that she can smell that smell, popcorn grease and millions of tread marks in the carpets. “It got burned down when I was at uni.”

Mycroft squints under the lights, hard and fluorescent. He picks up the menu, wedged between the bottle of ketchup and vinegar. “These menus are laminated. And sticky.”

“Better than that hoity-toity place we were in.” Molly smiles when the waitress comes over, orders a pot of tea for two, lasagne and chips and a sticky toffee pudding.

“Same for you, love?” The waitress says to Mycroft, who nods and dismisses her with a soft thank you. Then they’re alone. 

Mycroft takes a pen out of his pocket, rolls it around between his fingers. _He’s nervous_. For a moment, Molly has a horrible vision that he’ll pull out a chequebook and offer to buy her baby from her, that he’ll see her clothes (yes, she admits that she pilfered them from the bathroom floor. Is it such a crime, for a busy career woman with a train wreck of a love life to wear clothes that are a little bit dirty? Is that really such a crime?) and the bit of hair sticking out of her pony tail from where she cut it herself (because dried vomit just will not come out, no matter how hard she tried), remember her rifling through her bins at the back of the tiny flat that’s barely suitable for her, never mind a baby, and he’ll offer her an obscene amount of money for her child.

 _No_ , she pushes the menus between the ketchup and the vinegar with such force that the whole lot goes on the floor. _It doesn’t matter how much he offers. He can piss off if he thinks that anyone other than me is raising this baby. Its my baby. Mine. I don’t care what him or Sherlock or anyone else says. My baby_.

“Molly?” Mycroft’s staring at her looking more than a little concerned. “Are you alright? Your face has gone very red.”

“You’re not buying my baby.” Molly blurts out.

Mycroft blinks, looks at her as though she’s talking a language that he’s never heard before. “I beg your pardon?”

“My baby. Its mine. I know its Sherlock’s too, but he won’t want him, won’t want us, you said so yourself. You can be a part of his life because you’ll be his uncle, and I didn’t have many aunts and uncles growing up, but you aren’t buying my baby.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Your pen.” Molly wipes her eyes. “You’re going to pull out a chequebook and ask me to name my price, then you’ll write me a cheque and before I’ve even got to hold him when he’s born, you’ll take him and put him in one of your silly suits and bring him to that place you brought me to, and although they have really lovely cakes, he’ll grow up to be just like you and Sherlock and that isn’t right!”

“Molly, people are starting to stare.”

“I don’t care!” Molly stands up and bangs the table. “I don’t care!”

“Hey love.” A man in grease-covered overalls comes closer with nothing but concern on his face. “Is this tosser in the suit bothering you?”

“Do go away.” Mycroft looks rather flustered. “Just a family tiff, that’s all.”

“Its alright.” Molly wipes her tears and puts her hand on her would-be saviour’s arm. “Its fine. I’m just upset.” She manages a smile because it looks like the only thing that’s going to make him go away without murdering Mycroft. “I’m pregnant.”

The man’s face breaks into a smile. “My wife’s working on our third. Makes her crazy, but they’re worth it.” He turns to Mycroft and points a finger in his face, long and as thick as a sausage. _Sherlock had such nice hands_ , Molly thinks in dismay. “Listen to me. You make this lady cry anymore and I’ll shove your umbrella up your arse and open it, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.” Mycroft waits until their new friend has gone before returning his attention to Molly. “Molly, please understand me, I have no intention whatsoever of coming between you and your child. I simply wanted to offer my assistance.”

“Assistance?”

“Babies are expensive. I offered John Watson money to spy on my brother; do you really think I’d let my brother’s child go without?”

“I earn a good salary.” Molly bristles. “And I’m due for a promotion.”

“Your salary isn’t that good, even with the promotion. And your hours will be worse.” Mycroft tips his head at her. “Children should have a garden, somewhere to watch nature, play. I presume you’ll want to keep your job at Bart’s, which is fine, by the way. Studies show that children fare well, when one or both parents work, although if there’s another hospital that you prefer, here or elsewhere in the country, that could also be arranged. Have you looked into houses in suitable areas, close to suitable schools or nurseries? These things take money, Molly. Money that I, not you, have.”

Molly bites her lip until their food and drink arrives. The tea is in a stainless steel pot big enough for two, with a little quilted handle; Mycroft pours two cups, sniffs the milk and leaves it alone. He stares at the food like its come down from another planet but takes an experimental bite all the same. “This is rather good.” He says after two or three more bites.

Molly smiles and nibbles on the side of chips, thick and chunky and just out of the deep fat fryer. She douses them in salt and vinegar and says, “Told you.”

They eat in silence for a few minutes, Molly’s gaze fixed on the building across the road and suddenly, she just wants to talk about her dad. She looks at Mycroft. _Oh what the hell. He probably knows all this anyway and he is going to be my baby’s uncle_. “Used to be a cinema, one of the last independent ones around here. They’d play all the oldies on Sundays, me and Dad used to go, me and him and all the pensioners. They had an ice cream machine that churned loads of flavours. Dad always liked rum and raisin. We’d go into a late afternoon showing of _Casablanca_ or _My Fair Lady_ , I always loved _Casablanca_. Always used to cry at the end.”

Mycroft’s stopped eating and is staring at Mary with sympathy in his eyes. She’s never seen that look before. Is it practiced, or real? “You must miss him.”

Molly wipes her tears on her jumper sleeve. “Its like a wound.” She says, picking at her lunch. “Right here, where the heart is. Bleeds all the time, even five years later. Sometimes I think I’m going to die from it.” She looks at Mycroft. “I’m not asking Sherlock to marry me. I know I’m not what he wants, that I’ll never be what he wants. But I know what its like to be without a dad, and no son of mine’s going to have that, not if I can help it.”

Mycroft sips his tea and smiles. “Chin up, Molly.” He says. “It might even be a girl.”

###

Mycroft’s car picks him up outside, but Molly declines the offer of a lift. Instead, she walks along the road, hands in pockets, hunched up against the rain and the wind. She finds herself in a maternity shop, full of smiling, happy women rubbing their stomachs and generally looking really pleased with themselves. _Is that how I’m supposed to look_ , she wonders? _Happy and glowing and generally swelling?_ She glances at herself in the mirror, dear God she looks a fright.When she gets home, she’s doing all the washing that she can find, and she’s cleaning the floor, too. She buys five pregnancy magazines, a pair of maternity jeans that hopefully she won’t need for a while (unless she continues to eat like she did today) and a small, blue onesie with a balloon stitched on the chest. She reads the magazines on the Tube on the way back to her flat and finds the pilfered Bakewell, half crushed from the ride. _She can do this_ , she thinks as she flips through the glossy magazines with her right hand, her left clutched in her pocket, curled around the cheque that Mycroft gave her. _She can do this. She has to be able to do this_.

When she gets back to the flat, she marches into the bathroom, takes all the washing and dumps it in the washing machine. While the washing machine spin cycle spins the machine halfway into the kitchen, she scrubs the bathroom floor until even Mycroft Holmes himself would deign to eat his dinner off it. Then she takes off her coat, and puts the cheque on the mantelpiece, behind the picture of her and her dad. She counts the zeroes, just to be sure she had it right the first time. _My bank account’s never seen that many black zeroes but he wrote it out like he was signing up for a magazine subscription_. She hasn’t decided if she’s going to deposit it yet, even though it seems short-sighted not to. The money’s for the baby, and Molly isn’t that prideful to think that Mycroft didn’t have even a little bit of a point. Babies cost money.

She dozes off reading an article about the merits of the best breast pumps on the market, her hand on her stomach. When she wakes up there’s lightening and rain crackling at the window and Sherlock Holmes is sitting on the edge of her bed.

“Mycroft said that it was urgent.” His voice is very quiet. “National security, apparently. Imagine my surprise when I land in London and he brings me here. You haven’t had a change of career since I last saw you, have you? Of course not; I can smell the chemicals from Bart’s in your hair, even after you’ve washed it.”

Molly sits up and wipes the sleep from her eyes. “I’m pregnant.”

She watches Sherlock’s face for anything that could even be in the same solar system as emotion. Was that a muscle twitch, in his jaw, or just a trick of the light? Did he blink more than usual, or is that the rain, bouncing off the window and reflecting against his eyes? Did he turn his head to look at me a bit more, or is his neck stiff? When he doesn’t say anything, Molly talks. She’s always hated silences.

“Its yours. Not like its going to be anyone else’s. Can’t even remember the last time I … you probably didn’t want to know that. Anyway, its yours. You can take a blood sample, if you want, when he’s born, check it for yourself in case you think I’m lying.”

“You told my brother.” Molly’s sure she hears something in those four words, something that sounds like hurt.

“He guessed it. I suppose it must run in the family, what you can do.”

Molly reaches for the pregnancy magazine and closes it, smoothes her duvet and fiddles with her hair. God, he makes her nervous. She looks at him and all she can think is _six weeks ago we had sex, in this bed and on the bathroom floor and we made a baby. You’ve seen me naked and we’ve made a baby_.

Sherlock doesn’t so much as blink. “He offered you money, for the child?”

“How did you-“

“Saw the cheque, on the mantelpiece. If he offered you money then he believes you, and if he offered it to John to spy on me, then he’s going to offer it to you. I’m surprised Mummy hasn’t been here to see what kind of a place you’re living in, since you’re now the carrier of the one and only Holmes grandchild.” Sherlock shrugs. “You should pay it in, use it. Believe me, if you don’t, you’ll never hear the end of it and I’m sure that you find Mycroft’s voice as tiresome as I do.”

Molly looks at her toes, the nail varnish chipping off. She feels like crying. _And just how did you think it would be? That you’d tell him and he’d pull you close and tell you that everything was going to be alright, that he’d march you down to the registry office the next day and make an honest woman out of you, the pathologist and the man you declared dead?_ She wants to laugh.

“I don’t want anything from you.” She says, so quietly that she can barely hear herself, above the rain. “I didn’t expect for this to happen, but now that it has, I won’t give him up, not when it could be my only chance to have a child. But if you want to see him, I won’t stop you.”

Sherlock stands up and removes his jacket, drapes it across the chair at the end of her bed. “There’s no planes leaving London tonight. The storm, Mycroft says. Appears he’s now a meteorologist in his spare time, when he’s not starting wars and toppling governments. If it’s a problem I’ll go to the flat he keeps-“

“No.” Molly scrabbles off the bed, takes his arm. He’s damp to touch but warm, beneath the shirt. “No, its fine.”

Sherlock looks down at her, taller than she remembered. For a second she’s sure that she sees something flicker across his face. She speaks before he can. “The couch is covered in washing. You can have the bed.”

They lie next to each other, side by side, like wooden planks in a lumber yard. Sleep doesn’t come easily and when it does, its fitfull and unsettled, Molly’s dreams full of dark shapes. She dreams about Jim, sometimes, even though he’s dead and she saw the body and knows that he’s dead, knows, knows, _knows_ , and when she wakes up she remembers how he used her to get close to Sherlock, how he almost killed Sherlock and John and so many others and feels a little bit sick. She sighs. Moriarty wanted her to get close to Sherlock. Mycroft’s seeking her out because of the baby. Sherlock comes here because she’s one of two people who knows that he isn’t dead. Isn’t there going to be anyone in this world who thinks she counts all on her own, not for what she can give people? Is that really asking so much?

She sleeps a little more, but not much. There’s warmth, on her stomach, some pressure. When Molly opens her eyes and grows accustomed to the room, she sees a hand, a man’s hand, with the long, elegant fingers of a violinist splayed across her still-flat stomach. Sherlock’s asleep, head resting against the other pillow. He looks so tired, but peaceful, so peaceful that Molly lies there and imagines, just for a moment before drifting off to sleep, that everything is normal.

He’s gone when she wakes up, the sheets cold. He’s left something on the kitchen table, carefully placed atop the pregnancy magazines. More vials and needles, a scalpel that looks sharp enough to kill. _For your collection_ , his scruffy hand says.

Molly pays the cheque into the bank account on her way to work.

###

In work, she tells Mike Stamford but no-one else, makes them both a cup of tea and sits in his office and in-between sips (because one cup of tea isn’t going to kill her or the baby, is it?) tells him, very coolly and calmly, that she’s six weeks pregnant and she’s doing it alone. When Mike starts to cry very loud, noisy tears, he wipes his hand on his lab coat and apologises.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He says when he sees her stricken face. “I’m happy for you, its just … I’ve never even met him, your bloke, and now you’re pregnant.”

 _Oh, but you have met him, more times than you think_. “There is no bloke.” Molly sighs. _Here comes the hard part_. “Well, I mean, there was, obviously. But he’s not on the scene. Its just me.”

“Just you?” Mike looks at her like he doesn’t understand. A _nd how could you, Molly thinks dismally. You found your soulmate in a school playground when you were fifteen and never looked back, not even four kids, a house and a holiday home in Majorca later. Not everyone’s lucky like you_. “Just you, like, on your own?”

Molly rubs her stomach and feels something between pride and panic. “Just me.”

She tells her mum the day after she tells Mike, takes the bus out to the residential home and they walk in the gardens, wrapped up in winter clothes for the first day of autumn without rain.

“I’m glad you called first.” Lucy Hooper has lost weight, since Molly saw her. “I usually do aqua-aerobics today, and yoga. Doing me the world of good, it is.”

“I can tell.” Molly notes approvingly.

“Six pounds lighter since coming here.” Her mum’s hair is thick and glossy and grey like the clouds above. She’s wearing trendy jeans and a jumper and eyeliner. Molly barely made it out the door with her jumper on the right way. _How did Mum have three of us and make it look so easy?_ “Its quite easy. No tea and biscuits in the afternoon, plenty of exercise. And I do those exercise DVDs, you know, with the other women. They’re great fun.”

Molly smiles and takes her mum’s hand. _God, why is this so hard?_ “Mum … I’m going to have a baby.”

Her mum looks at her and blinks once, twice. “Come again, love. I think I need a hearing aid. Did you say you were going to have a baby?”

“Yes.”

Her mum’s eyes dart to her stomach, still flat and hidden. “When? How?”

“In about seven months, seven and a half.”

“I didn’t even know that you were seeing anyone.”

“I’m not.”

“Molly Hooper!” Her mum looks rather indignant. “You had a one-night stand with a stranger? What were you thinking? You read terrible things nowadays, about disease or men murdering women in their beds; did you think of any of this before you climbed into bed with him? Did you at least know his name?”

Molly feels like she’s been slapped. “He isn’t a stranger, Mum. And of course we used protection. It just didn’t work.”

Her mother sniffs. “Well that’s something, at least. Is he a friend? You never mention any male friends except that ghastly man who made you cry that Christmas party, what was his name?”

Molly’s heart beats heavy in her chest. “Sherlock Holmes, Mum.”

“Yes, that’s right, him and that Doctor with the funny leg. But you said he was seeing someone, didn’t you?”

“John is seeing someone.”

“Alright. That other one, then. The detective. Isn’t he supposed to be working on his marriage? People nowadays give up far too easily on marriage. You think your dad and I had it easy?”

 _Not for a bloody minute_ , Molly thinks and rubs her forehead. She feels very tired. Not to mention nauseous. “Greg’s divorced now. And it isn’t any of those people. Its an old friend.”

“Who?” Lucy grips Molly’s leg and squeezes. “Who? Aren’t you at least going to tell me who the father of my latest grandchild is? He’s not married, is he?”

“No, Mum. Its just … I promise that I’ll tell you. Just not right now.”

Her mum sniffs with evident disapproval, but Molly can’t find the energy to care. _There, I’ve told her, done my bit. Sorry its not neat like it is with Sally and Rick, but I cut up dead bodies for a living and help the father of my child to fake his own death. Nothing about my life is neat_.

She can’t bear to face her dad, and cries all the way home. The flat is still and silent, no-one to see the tears that dry on her cheeks. When she’s all cried out, she calls her brother to tell him the news.

“Mum told me.” He sounds pleased, but guarded. “She was crying.”

 _She’s not the only one_. “She’s pissed off because the dad’s not on the scene.”

“Bugger her.” Her brother says with his usual cheer. “Are you happy?”

“Mostly.”

“You’re alright for money?”

“Yes.”

“The dad’s helping you?”

“As best as he can. And his brother’s well-off; he wants to help. Only niece or nephew and all that.”

“Could be one of both. Twins run in the family, you know.”

“God, don’t say that. Can I come and stay, next week? Been ages since I got out of London.”

“Course you can.” There’s the sound of something breaking in the background and Molly can almost hear Rick wince. “Text me with the details, okay? Got to go, love you!”

Her sister’s happy, when she gets the news. They stare at each other through a laptop screen, the little Skype logo in the corner. “I think its really brave of you, Molls. Bugger what Mum says. She’s got no idea how hard women have it now. Its all, listen to your clock, settle down, find a man, keep your career, have a kid, stay off work, don’t stay off work. You can’t win.”

Molly smiles, and wants to hug her sister as hard as she can. “Thanks, Sal.”

“Look.” Sally leans forward, her face earnest and flushed. _It’s the summer where she is_ , Molly remembers. Her sister’s lived in Australia for years and she’s never been to visit; how long has it been, since she saw her and touched her? She can’t remember. “Listen to me, because I’m only going to say this once. This is your baby, alright? Now everyone and their mum’s going to tell you what to do, whether it’s about the birth, breastfeeding, raising them up, schools, parenting advice, blah blah blah. Its all bollocks. You do what’s best for you and the baby. You’re smart, Molly, much smarter than me. You aren’t irresponsible. Trust your gut, and don’t let people make you feel like shit for the decisions you make.”

 _Easy for you to say_ , Molly says as she ends the call and stares at the stack of parenting and pregnancy books newly-delivered from Mycroft. He’s made noises, about her meeting his parents, but the idea makes Molly white-knuckled with fear. _You’re not the one pregnant_.

She decides that she’s going to wait until after her first scan before she tells anyone else, including the Holmes’. Its easy enough to hide; she likes jumpers and the winter’s here, and the lab coat can hide a wealth of sins. As for anything else, she’ll just spend a lot of time hidden behind a microscope or a dead body. Who knew the dead could be so useful?

As it turns out, she needn’t have worried: John’s work rarely brings him to the morgue and even if Lestrade was the type to pass comment on weight gain, he’s too wrapped up with the latest spate of serial murders to mention it.

“You’re looking well.” Donovan says one day, as she watches Molly sign over test results and autopsy findings. “Skin looks fantastic. New moisturiser?”

“New mascara.”

“Nah, it’s the lack of stress.” Donovan’s wearing new earrings; she keeps fiddling with them. Sherlock would have deduced her life history from them; all Molly can tell is that they’re gold with pearls in the middle. “Got to be. Not got the Fre-Sherlock dragging you in here at all hours of the day and night, using you as his verbal punching bag when his life gets too hard.”

“He didn’t do that.”

“Didn’t he?” Donovan’s eyebrows shoot towards her hairline. “Well you’re one of the lucky ones, then. Pity he’s not here, though.” She frowns and takes the papers Molly offers. “Could really do with his help on this one.”

In a feeble attempt to maintain the ruse, Molly books her first scan at a hospital five miles away from Bart’s. As luck would have it, the sonographer on call is Mike Stamford’s golf buddy and member of the OB/GYN staff at Bart’s. His face is rather red, when he sees her.

“Molly, hi. Fancy seeing you here.”

Molly sighs. _Great. Oh well, its not like I was going to be able to hide it for much longer, anyway_. “What brings you here?”

“Staff shortages. So, what have we got today?”

The gel goes on her stomach, cold and slick and thick and gloopy. She’s not showing that much yet, just a small bump that makes her jeans a little bit tighter than usual.

“Is everything okay?” She stares at the sonogram, hears the steady bumpbumpbump. _One heartbeat_.

“Everything looks normal.” The sonographer smiles. “Dad not able to make it?”

“He’s working.”

“Pity. Most dads cry when they see their baby for the first time.”

“He’s not much of a crier.”

“That’s what they all say. Just wait until you two come in for the next scan, I guarantee he’ll be bawling his eyes out.”

The sonographer points out the head, the hands and feet. “Do you want to know whether it’s a girl or a boy? It’s a bit early to tell, but we could try, if you like.”

“No.” Molly shakes her head, transfixed by the blob on the screen. _My baby. That’s my baby_. “No, I want to be surprised.”

“Good for you. So many people want to know, but it takes all the fun out of it. Got any preference?”

“I just want it to be healthy.”

“That’s the spirit.”

The sonographer gives her a printout to take home with her, a sepia image of her baby. Molly puts it on the fridge, held on with a ‘Welcome to London’ magnet and stares at it every time she opens the fridge door.

She comes home from work late one night and her flat is damp and cold. The radiator has broken again. She thinks about Mycroft’s words. _Babies need space. Maybe he’s right._

Sherlock’s asleep on the couch. He doesn’t stir when she comes in and she doesn’t try to wake him. She makes a cup of tea, lets the bag sit for ages in the cup. The decaffeinated bags are really crap; maybe she should just abandon it entirely while she’s pregnant. As she moves for the milk her heart stops. _Gone. The picture’s gone_.

She finds it on the coffee table, next to Sherlock’s leather gloves. The magnet’s on the table, neatly aligned with the edge. In the orange-black light from the streetlights, she can see a thumb print in the corner of the picture, long and slender. _Violinist’s fingers_. Molly feels something hard lodged in her throat. She tries to swallow and can’t, so she just picks up the magnet and the picture, returns them to their rightful place, and goes to bed.

TBC.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow. The response to this fic has been so overwhelmingly positive, I’m really, really pleased, and so thankful that you have all taken the time to read and review the chapters. Thanks so much to everyone who has left kudos/comments/reviews, who has favourited/followed/bookmarked my story. Its great, really, especially because this is my first fic for this fandom. I'm really, really touched.
> 
> A/N. I’ve used bits and bobs from S3 in this chapter, tried to give Molly (and readers) a little bit of insight into the Holmes’ family. Please note that Mary Mountford is, as far as I’m aware, entirely a product of my overactive imagination. Any resemblance to a real place is entirely coincidental.

Molly’s stomach grows, but slowly. _Is there even a baby in there_ , she wonders as she stands in front of her mirror in nothing but her underwear, staring at the sizeable pouch between her hips. _I don’t look pregnant; I just look like I’ve eaten too many biscuits_. Still, she’s up a cup size in her bras, and her jeans are snug around her bum, so she supposes that she is growing. The pregnancy magazines are full of women with pert, perfect bumps and beautiful hair and perfect smiles. Molly just feels frumpy and fat. Still, her lab coat still hides the worst of it and she’s bought a pair of black pants in a bigger size so she can still look smart if she has to. There’s no hiding the fullness in her face, though, although thankfully no-one is as brazen as Sherlock to say something about it.

He still comes to her flat, stealthy and silent like a ghost. His visits are sporadic at best, a day here, two days there. She leaves him to do … whatever it is that he does, although its not uncommon for her to open the fridge searching for milk and find eyeballs in there instead, or blood samples nestled in equipment bearing the Bart’s stamp. He hasn’t asked her about the sonogram and she hasn’t offered, nor has she mentioned the night that she found it on the coffee table. But as ever, Sherlock likes to surprise her.

“Your morning sickness has stopped.” He says one morning as he drinks coffee and sits and her kitchen table on one of the rare occasions that they share the flat during the day. _He looks tired_ , Molly thinks, _a little more tired than the last time, and the time before tha_ t. She isn’t the only one under strain.

Molly’s eating porridge and she pauses with the spoon halfway to her mouth. “Thank God.”

“You haven’t gained as much weight as some mothers do.”

Molly stares at him, trying to work out if he’s being cruel, or just observant.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Not lucky.” Sherlock sips his coffee. “You’ve bought new clothes, I saw the labels in the rubbish bin. Yoga pants, top, t-shirts. There’s a place by Bart’s that does yoga classes; your feet smell like their floor polish every Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“How do you know what my feet smell like?”

He just stares at her, but says nothing. _Waiting_ , Molly thinks. _He’s waiting_. Sherlock would wait until the end of time if it got him the answers he wanted. Isn’t that what he said, once, that nothing mattered but the work? Is that what she is, a puzzle to be solved, riddle to be deduced? She hopes not. She doesn’t know what she hopes she is to Sherlock, but not a riddle or puzzle, because once he’s solved riddles and put puzzles pieces together to make a picture, he’s done with it. He probably doesn’t even read the same book twice and she doubts he ever sits still long enough to watch a film, never mind have one that he likes to watch again and again. And she doesn’t want to be a completed puzzle to him, not when his baby kicks her stomach and keeps her up at night.

She prays that their child is never a completed puzzle to him. Or even a puzzle at all. A puzzle to be solved isn’t the same as love, however much Sherlock protests otherwise.

“I go to prenatal yoga classes twice a week. And I’ve started doing more walking.” Molly shrugs. “Exercise is good, for me and the baby.”

“Easier pregnancy, labour and recovery.” Sherlock nods. “You’ve got less fat and more muscle tone than you did have, even taking into account your condition.”

Molly shovels porridge into her mouth. “I’m not sick, Sherlock. Pregnancy is not a condition.”

“What would you call it, then?”

Molly stands up, dumps her now-empty bowl in the sink. “I have to go to work.”

“Have you given any more thought to the offer that Mycroft made to you?”

Molly looks out of the kitchen window. She’s on a top-floor flat, overlooking buildings that stretch as far as the eye can see. The stairs are rickety and the bannister loose, put too much weight on it and you’re likely to fall through and even break your neck. Even she isn’t too stubborn to admit that this flat is no place for a baby. Still, it sticks in her throat a little.

“I don’t want your brother’s money, Sherlock.”

“Well he doesn’t want it; why else would he be giving it to you?” Sherlock sips more coffee, stands up; Molly can feel his presence behind her. “When is the next scan?”

“Why do you care?” Molly turns around to stare at Sherlock, standing there with that same, impassive look on his face. “I meant what I said, Sherlock. I don’t expect anything from you, which includes feigned interest in my baby.”

She moves to brush past him and he touches her arm, stopping her. It’s the first time in almost six months that he’s touched her and its like she’s had an electric shock. She looks up at him, her eyes boring into those pale orbs in his head that see everything. Sherlock presses his lips together, looks very much like he wants to say something, but eventually his expression becomes inscrutable and Molly walks into her bedroom to get ready for work.

###

Lestrade comes into the morgue as Molly’s cleaning spilled tea off her scrubs. He talks to her stomach when he says, “Bloody hell, you’ve been keeping that quiet.”

Molly glances up, barely breaking stride. “You didn’t ask.”

Lestrade snaps his mouth shut but can’t hide his surprise. “Sorry, Molly. I’m sorry, that was really tactless. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“When are you due?”

“Three months.”

“Three months!” Lestrade’s eyes wouldn’t move from her stomach if Molly pried them off with a crowbar. “Bloody hell, Molls, you look wonderful!” He kisses her cheek and his stubble brushes her skin. He’s greyer now, than the last time she saw him, greyer and a little more untidy. His shirt needs ironing and his coat is rumpled, like he’s slept in it. _How’s he doing, after the divorce?_ But then he’s asking questions like, “Do you know what you’re having, how are you feeling, who’s the lucky bloke?”

“An old friend.” Molly says, putting her lab coat back on and returning to the corpse that Lestrade’s come to see.

“Anyone I know?”

Molly’s sure he can feel her stiffen. _Why, why hadn’t she thought of a cover story?_ “Old friend.” She shakes her head and prays that he believes her. “No-one you know.”

 _Its true, isn’t it_ , she thinks as she watches Lestrade retreat an hour later, another misadventure solved. _How well does Lestrade really know Sherlock? How well do any of them, even John or Mycroft or Sherlock’s parents?_ He’s been inside of her and he left a child behind and she doesn’t pretend to know him, he keeps his mind and his emotions – if he has any – wrapped so tightly under that coat and that scarf and that bloody stupid hat and those perfectly-made suits, it’s a wonder he even knows who he is. Has he ever turned that wonderful brain on himself, deduced his mind like he’s deduced hers?

She rubs her stomach, wishes that she could see more than the last third of her feet. She might not know the sex of her baby but she’s imagined what he or she will look like, even used one of those stupid ‘what will your baby look like?’ sites online to project a result. In her mind the child is like Sherlock, a little nightmare with dark, unruly curls and very pale skin and eyes, tearing through her apartment and taking apart her stereo and somehow reassembling it so it’s a spaceship.

 _Oh God_ , she thinks, her mind on those bloody baby books that arrive via courier. Mycroft’s doing, no doubt. In the past three months she’s been given books on everything from birth plans to breast feeding to brochures for every school in the world. _What if the baby’s like Sherlock? How will she be able to handle it?_ She can handle Sherlock not loving her; its painful and crippling but not terminal. If this baby doesn’t love her, is incapable of loving her, or worse, incapable of love at all, then that might just finish her off.

She leaves the morgue just before a panic attack starts, but there’s a black car waiting for her and she slips inside. “You must be bloody telepathic.” She says, fisting her hands until her breathing subsides.

“Anthea, call my physician.” Mycroft ends his call and is really doing a rather good impression of slight alarm. “Dr Hooper is unwell.”

“I’m alright.” Molly waves away Anthea’s fingers, poised over her phone, and Mycroft’s cool concern. “I mean it, I’m alright. Just a little anxious. Last three months, you know.”

The car drives around the park twice and then Anthea gets out, leaving Mycroft and Molly alone in a car that smells like shoe shine and leather. Molly’s stomach rolls. The last thing she wants is to be sick. Mycroft watches her closely.

“You’re working too hard.”

“I’ve cut back on my hours.”

“When is your maternity leave due to start?”

“For Gods’ sake, Mycroft.” Molly wants him to shut up, just shut up, for five minutes. “First your bloody brother talks to me like I’ve got a medical condition, now you too. I’m pregnant, not stupid. I don’t need to be coddled.”

“What you need is rest.” Mycroft purses his lips. “Your blood pressure was high, at your last check with the doctor.”

“Mycroft, I swear, if you try to lecture me about the dangers of high blood pressure during pregnancy, the Queen herself won’t stop me from kicking your arse.” Molly breathes in and out, in and out, until she feels calmer. “Sorry. Lestrade, he … he came to see me. Asked who the dad was.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow that Molly’s sure is not only perfectly plucked, but probably dyed, too. “And what did you tell him?”

“Nothing. That he was an old friend, no-one he knew.” Molly bites her lip. “It was hard enough lying to them about Sherlock being dead, but this …” She wants to cry. At the moment it feels like all she does is cry. “I just … I thought it would be different. Sally had friends, you know? She had a prenatal group and her husband met them all and they went to classes together and he did that thing with her, the breathing that you see them all do in the films when they go to those classes. He built their rocking chair and their cot and held the baby when it was colicky and cried and …” She’s crying now, huge, huge tears that roll down her cheeks and splash onto her trousers. “I’ve got all these people who want to help me, and I feel like I’m lying to them all. And I don’t even have the baby’s dad to turn to, and its all my own bloody fault. Sorry.” She says when Mycroft passes her a pressed, starched, bleached white handkerchief. “You’ve been really great, the last thing you probably want to hear is me prattling on. What’s one crying pregnant woman when you’ve got a country to run, right?”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, just smiles in what he thinks is a reassuring fashion. He drops her back at Bart’s and when Molly gets outside its raining and her coat is soaked through and to top it all off she steps right into a puddle that goes past her ankle and starts to cry all over again.

 _Sod it_ , she thinks as she grabs her handbag and scrawls a note to Mike. _Sod it all. Five bloody years I’ve been at this hospital and I’ve never left work early. I’m leaving now. Not for good, just for the rest of the day. And the weekend_.

###

She takes a cab home and runs a warm bath full of her favourite bubble bath. Her bathtub isn’t full size and she has to fold herself into it, but even with her knees drawn almost all the way up, the sensation is worth it. So she leans back and rest her head against the bathroom tiles that have mould in the cracks no matter how much she cleans them, and lets the water soothe her frazzled nerves.

She’s dressed in a grey dressing gown and her ugliest pyjamas, a _Casablanca_ rerun on the telly, and the door goes. Bugger. Molly puts down her dinner and moves for the door, awkward now that she’s a little bit bigger. _Who is this going to be?_

“Mr and Mrs Holmes.” She feels a little bit faint when she opens the door. _Sherlock’s parents. Oh God_. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Mycroft called us, dear.” Sherlock’s mother – Cora, she insists on being called – fusses around Molly like she’s Holmes flesh and blood, crosses the threshold without waiting for an invitation. She smells like soap and talcum powder and has short grey hair and very sharp eyes. “He said you were feeling the strain. Pack your bags, you’re coming to stay with us. Car’s parked on double-yellows, so quick as you can.”

“You don’t need to bother getting changed, Molly, love.” Mark Holmes has dark, sharp eyes behind rimless glasses and a spring in his step that most younger men would be proud of. “We don’t stand on ceremony at our place.”

“I don’t understand.” Molly stands aside to let them past, because that’s really all you can do when a member of the Holmes family – brother, mother, father or otherwise – wants to come into your house. “What are you doing here, again?”

Cora gives Molly another hug. _People have started doing that a lot_ , Molly realises. Ever since she became pregnant, they want to hug her. She’d find it flattering if she didn’t think that it made her seem a little pathetic. People never wanted to hug her before; why should they start now?

“My son’s very worried about you, Molly. Said the strain’s starting to show.”

 _Strain?_ Molly wants to combust. _You’ve got to be having a laugh_. _Mycroft’s worried about my mental well-being so he sends his bloody parents, who didn’t even attend their son’s funeral because they knew he was still alive?_

She bites her tongue. _Their son’s overseas fighting one war while their other son fights another, or the same one, at home. You’re carrying their only grandchild. No wonder they came charging in like the cavalry when Mycroft called. Your own bloody mother won’t take the time away from her bingo and exercise DVDs to come and visit you but Sherlock’s parents will?_

More than anything, she wants her dad, and her brother and sister, but Sally’s on the other side of the world and Rick … there’s something going on there, Molly’s sure of it, something between him and his wife. He’d come if she called, but she doesn’t know if she should.

 _They’re in my house, talking to me_. The other voice in her head sounds suspiciously like Sherlock. _I’ve met them once, three months ago when I had to try to explain to them just who I was and why I was sitting in their front room with a cup of tea, telling them that they were going to be grandparents_.

“Really.” She tries to sound forthright, forceful, Sherlockian. Instead she just sounds like Molly; tired and frightened and feeling, for the first time, desperately alone. “Honestly, Mr and Mrs Holmes – Mark and Cora,” She says when she sees their faces. “I mean it, I’m really fine.”

“No you’re not, love.” Cora pats Molly’s hand. Its nice, but suffocating. _What does she have to say to get them to leave?_ “But you are going to come with us, just for the weekend. Nice bit of country air, away from London, do you the world of good.”

“He said you liked yoga.” Mark’s got her yoga mat tucked under his arm and gives her a grin. “Got plenty of space in the spare room for you to do it, if you fancy it.”

Molly looks at their wide, eager faces. _Oh why not. What else is she going to do? Plus_ , she thinks as she throws clothes, underwear and toiletries into an overnight bag, _it might be nice to be looked after for a change_. And she’d seen the length of Sherlock and Mycroft’s legs. There was no way those two blokes didn’t grow up in a house with a full-sized bathtub. God, she can almost imagine it now, the prospect of a bath tub that she hadn’t cleaned herself, where she could stretch out and still have room to spare … its sounds better than sex, and that’s saying something since her and Sherlock’s night together’s been on steady repeat in her mental video collection.

The Holmes’ drive a car that’s a few years old and smells like dogs and horses. There’s a blanket on the back seat covered in hair, but Cora insists that Molly sit in the front passenger seat, fusses around her until the belt is fastened. They’ve been blocked in by a sports car with a dent in the rear bumper, and as Mark manoeuvres their car to make sure they don’t add another one, Molly looks up at her flat, the little window with the herbs on the sil. Basil, rosemary, marjoram; she always wanted her own herb garden. When she was little she used to dream of having a house with a garden, where she could grow fruits and vegetables and herbs, where her husband would bring in huge handfuls of fresh basil that he’d somehow turn into a fantastic salad while she finished off a journal article in her study, a room full of books with a desk that looked out onto the garden and caught the sun in the afternoons.

 _You could still have that_ , she thinks as Mark finally uncorks them from the spot they’re in and the car moves forward. _Mycroft offered it to you. Not the husband, or the herb garden, but everything else. And you could grow your own herbs. Grow the right ones, maybe a husband will sprout out of the ground, too_. She rubs her stomach, thinks about her son or daughter running around in the garden, naming all the flowers when they came into bloom. Or remembering them by their stems and bulbs, if Sherlock’s genes have anything to say about it.

Cora touches Molly’s shoulder. “Thought of any names yet, love?”

Molly stares out of the windscreen, taps her foot along to the song on the radio, a catchy pop tune that Mark sings like he’s written it. “Not really.”

“Not long to think about it, now.”

“I know.” Headlights come out of the dark and the wet on the narrow roads, red and white jewels in the dark. “I was thinking … Amelia, for a girl. George, for a boy.” She swallows tears. “I like old-fashioned names, and my dad was called George.”

“Nice names. Still don’t know what you’re having?”

“No.”

Molly drifts off as Mark joins the M25, traffic heavy despite the time. When she opens her eyes, Cora’s shaking her awake and the car’s stopped. “We’re here now. Let’s get you settled on the sofa and get the kettle on.”

The Holmes’ live in a village in Surrey in a cottage that looks like its come straight out of a Christmas card. There’s a neat little roof with a chimney that puffs smoke, once Mark gets the fire going, a perfect lawn and a wall that’s falling into just enough disrepair to be quaint, rather than a nuisance, and just as she did the first and only time she came here, Molly stares up at the home and tries to imagine Sherlock here. She can see it, to be sure, see him striding across the fields that surround the place like a bloody Byronic hero, at least until he opens his mouth. Those long legs and pale skin, the lush, thick curls that feel just like silk, the high cheekbones flushed against the cold, oh yes, Molly’s insides are turning to liquid just at the thought of Sherlock striding through the fields in his long coat and even that silly hat, but there’s something wrong with the image.

 _Sherlock_ , she thinks as Mark offers his arm. _Sherlock’s what’s wrong with this image. He doesn’t belong here anymore than he belongs in that herb garden with me. He belongs in Baker Street, with John and Lestrade, or in the morgue. He’s not something that you can put a lead on and train to walk to heel. The minute he’s housetrained is the minute I become a GP and spend the rest of my life doing smear tests and prostrate exam_ s.

“Moved here once the boys got themselves settled in London.” Cora ushers her into the living room, onto a couch that’s made of heavy red corduroy and is so soft that Molly could fall asleep right there. “I can work here undisturbed, and Mark likes his garden.”

They make her tea and toast and the fire becomes so warm that Molly can feel her eyes drooping shut. She’s so tired and relaxed, she forgot what it was like to have someone take care of you.

“Come on now, love.” Mark helps her to bed. “Let’s get you in bed.”

The spare bedroom is upstairs, along a corridor and to the left, far away from the Holmes’ bedroom. Its clean and big and the bed is so comfortable that Molly doesn’t think she ever wants to get up. The last thought she remembers before falling asleep is, _I must call Mycroft and thank him for calling his parents_.

###

Sunlight streams through the window when Molly wakes up. There’s mist and dew on the field outside. _Morning_ , she thinks, yawning and stretching. The house is still and quiet, no noise, not even a dog bark even though Molly knows there’s a golden Labrador knocking around somewhere; it tried to sit on her lap the last time she was here.

The spare bedroom looks different in the daylight. The walls are plastered rather unevenly and there’s huge mahogany beams in the ceilings. In the corner Molly spies moving boxes, still unpacked; an unbridled curiosity reveals school books with Sherlock’s name inside them, books and books and yet more books, on every available topic. Want to know about the fungus that grows on the bonnet of cars in northwest Bejing? Sherlock’s read that book. Want to learn all about composing concertos for an orchestra made entirely of flutes and clarinets? Sherlock could probably tell you down to the last reed. What about a monograph on theoretical physics? No problem, there’s a book on that, too.

 _Books, books, everywhere, and nothing for a child_. Molly stares at the titles, the well-worn spines. When she was younger, she read books about the Magic Faraway Tree or Puddle Lane, Adrian Mole and Mildred Hubble. She didn’t even know what physics was until she got to secondary school and sat in a lab with thirty other children, all equally as ignorant as she was.

 _They’ll need a special school_ , Molly realises, rubbing her stomach. _If they’re even a little bit like Sherlock, ordinary school won’t be enough for them_. She’s read a little, about gifted children. High ability, the government calls them. Mycroft sent her some material, some brochures about the best schools in London. Molly looked at them and felt sick when she saw the cost per term, before she even got started on the uniforms. She puts the books back in the box and closes the lid. _They aren’t even born yet. Just get through that and the first year, then you can think about schools_.

There’s a violin in the corner, a music stand, neatly folded away. Molly’s never heard Sherlock play, although she’s seen him touching the strings, when she’s been at the flat. It’s the closest thing to affection she’s ever seen in his eyes. _That’s not true_ , she thinks as she picks up the instrument and runs her fingers along the wood. _You saw it, when he would look at John, or in the morgue when he asked for your help. He’s capable of affection, he just-_

 _Enough_. She puts the violin down on the bed. _Don’t do that. Don’t do that to yourself, make excuses for him. He is what he is, you know that. So get dressed and go downstairs and talk to his parents, because he’s not going to talk to you_.

She has a quick shower and changes into her new maternity jeans and favourite jumper, her shirt peeking over the collar. She comes downstairs into the breakfast room, half-expects Mycroft to be at the kitchen table but its just Mark and Cora and freshly-baked bread that makes Molly’s mouth water.

“Sherlock said you liked whole grain.” Mark pulls out a chair for her and Cora pours some tea. “Made this loaf fresh this morning, Mycroft bought me one of those new breadmakers for Christmas.”

They make her more toast than she can eat, thick doorstops of bread toasted just right, smeared with salty butter and Molly’s favourite jam, the lot washed down with hot, strong tea. _Its heaven_ , Molly decides as she feels herself truly relax for the first time in weeks. To say thank you, she insists on washing the dishes, and Cora stays to dry them.

“I found some of Sherlock’s books, in the spare room.” The water is hot on Molly’s skin, even through the rubber gloves she wears. Through the kitchen window, she can see the dew on the field, just beginning to lift. Beyond the field, a bus struggles to make it down the narrow country lane and almost loses a wing mirror. “He read a lot, when he was younger?”

Cora rolls her eyes. “Learned to read and talk before he could walk. Thought that if he just told me what he wanted, described it in enough detail, I’d get it for him, even if it was sitting right in front of him. Lazy sod.”

“Sounds just like him.” Molly cleans a plate with a pretty flower pattern on it. “Was he very clever, when he was younger?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. Well, you’ve seen him, haven’t you? Almost as clever as he thinks he is, when it comes to some things.” Cora looks out of the window, winces when the bus loses its left-hand wing mirror. “Read every book in the library before he was five, if you can believe that. We didn’t, of course, so to prove it he started to transcribe each one from memory onto the walls in our house with a felt tip pen. Cry for attention, the psychologist said. Mycroft learned as soon as Sherlock was born that he wasn’t the most important thing in the world, but Sherlock never has.”

“Where did he go to school?”

“Both of them went to Mary Mountford, in the city.” Cora beams. “Full scholarship, both of them. No way we could have afforded those fees, but they passed the entrance exams with flying colours.”

Mary nods. She’s heard of it, but doesn’t know anything about it except that half the Cabinet went there. “Its meant to be a good school.”

Cora’s face goes dark. “Full of upstarts if you ask me. Never let my boys forget that they were scholarship students, as if their parents having money somehow made them better than my boys. My boys might not have grown up with Duke So-and-So or Lady Whatever, and we can’t trace our family back to 1066 like so many of them pretend to, but who cares?” She spies someone she knows in the lane and waves. “Mycroft did very well there, but Sherlock hated every minute of it. The other boys were little sods, bullied him like there was no tomorrow. One day, he was so miserable, he ran out of school and got on a train at Euston. Ended up all the way in Glasgow, if you can believe it. Imagine! A twelve-year old from London who’s never been further north than Birmingham, on his own on a train platform in Scotland.”

Molly tries to see a miniature Sherlock, alone in one of Mountford’s ugly blue blazers and matching soft cap, happy to get on a train going anywhere rather than go back to school. “That sounds horrible.”

“I nearly had a heart attack when I found out.” Cora’s face is dark with anger when she remembers, even twenty years later. “They were jealous, if you ask me.”

“Of Sherlock’s intelligence?”

Cora nods, anger fading to sadness. “My son’s greatest gift. And curse. Ask him to build you a spaceship and he could do it blindfolded. Ask him who shot Kennedy and he’d solve it in an hour. But ask him to have a conversation with the mother of his child about how he feels, and he goes off to fight his brother’s war.” She gives Molly a smile. “He doesn’t know how lucky he is. I might have won a Fields Medal but I know I’m nothing without Mark. What good is brains if you’ve got no-one to laugh with or give you a cuddle when you most need it?”

Molly looks down, at her bump resting against the counter. “Mycroft wants to buy a house, for me and the baby.”

Cora rolls her eyes. “Mycroft’s as bad as Sherlock, in his own way. Sherlock likes to show how clever he is, Mycroft likes to show how rich he is. Mark and I like to make up stories about how he made it. We know he’s got a good job, but imagining the possibilities so so much fun, isn’t it? I think he plays the stock market but Mark thinks he’s an international poker player.”

“He’s got a good bluff face.” Sherlock’s parents are so down-to-earth that Molly almost starts crying right there. “Thanks so much for inviting me to stay. Its hard, all this.”

“Course it is.” Cora starts to put the dishes away. “But not long now, Mycroft says. Soon Sherlock will be finished doing whatever it is he’s doing and he can come home, and you two can talk properly and get this whole thing sorted out.”

###

Molly ends up staying with the Holmes’ for four days. They fuss over her like she’s their own daughter, take her for gentle strolls through the fields and little brooks that fill the land around their cottage. Cora tells her more about Sherlock, growing up, giving Molly a glimpse into his childhood.

She finds out that he’s allergic to freshly-cut grass and used to be afraid of bees until he learned about the irrationality of fear and decided right then and there, at the tender age of ten, that he was never going to be afraid of anything else again because fear was for the irrational, unconscious mind and his mind was fully rational, thank you very much. When he was at Mary Mountford he used to sit in the library and read while the other children played rugby and hockey. When he came top in every single one of this classes, his fellow students locked him in the boys’ bathroom and hit him with a wet towel. When he was fifteen he broke the Deputy Head Boy’s nose after he stole Sherlock’s beloved violin three hours before the recital.

“He calmed down a bit, after that.” Cora blushes. “And I’d just won the Field’s Medal, which stopped him from getting expelled. The staff used to like it when I gave guest lectures. Made them look good.”

“Why didn’t you send him somewhere else?” Molly shakes her head and just can’t understand.

Cora shrugs. “No-one else would have him. Mycroft was already at Cambridge, so Sherlock would spent holidays and weekends there until one day he called me up and said that he’d been accepted for early admission. So that was that. Graduated in two years, decided to stay on and add natural and hard sciences to his chemistry degree.”

Molly looks at Sherlock’s mother and doesn’t really know what to say. What is there to say to his mother, after telling her a thing like that? They walk a little more and she says, “I went to our local school. All girls school, bloody horrible uniforms. We had to kneel on stools to make sure our skirts weren’t too short. It was pedantic as anything and some of the teacher’s weren’t that marvellous, but nothing like that.”

Cora shrugs. Her face is carefully composed; _she’s had this conversation before_ , Molly thinks. _With herself, with Mark, with Mycroft, any psychologist that would listen, maybe even with Sherlock, but she’s had it before, many times. The human mind’s capacity for self-delusion and self-justification_ , Sherlock would say with a snarl. “Mary Mountford was the best school in the country. Smallest class sizes, best ratio of staff to students, best resources. Had a lab that bloody NASA would be proud of. Sends half the class to Oxford each year, the other half to Cambridge or Harvard or wherever. So I thought, ‘great, he’ll thrive here. So much learning that even he’ll be exhausted.’ But he wasn’t. Maybe I should have just sent him to the local comprehensive, like all the other kids on our road.”

They sit down on a fallen log by the stream. The water’s clear and quick; Molly wants to dip her toes in it. “Its lovely here.”

“Our holiday cottage. We used to come here in the summer, Easter, Christmas. Mycroft used to unwind here but Sherlock never did. Used to prowl around here like a caged animal, desperate for something to do. There was one summer though, before he decided to go to Cambridge. Couple down the road had this Red Setter and she had puppies, big litter, they couldn’t feed them all. One of them found itself in the river a few miles from here, poor thing was half-drowned. Sherlock waded in to get it, almost drowned himself in the process, silly bugger. Brought this thing home, took care of it, as best he could. Called it Redbeard. Like love’s lost dream, they were. Only thing that calmed him down, that dog.”

Molly can’t ever imagine Sherlock being calm. _He was, though, that night with the rain when he fell asleep in your bed. He was calm then, and you touched his hair and he woke up. That changed everything, that night_. “That sounds nice.”

“It was, until the poor thing got hit by a car.” Cora looks sad. “Only time I ever saw Sherlock shed a tear, when we took Redbeard to the vet.”

“He never talks about him.”

“Never has, not since he came out of the vet’s surgery. Come on.” Cora takes Molly’s arm and squeezes. “Let’s take the long way back.”

###

They drop Molly off outside her flat and insist on walking her to her door, up the stairs with the rickety bannister. The flat’s just as she left it, the sink full of dirty dishes and clothes waiting to be washed. The sonogram is still on the fridge, and Cora and Mark coo and fuss all over it and insist that next time, Molly gets them a copy for their fridge.

“Our only grandchild.” Cora wipes away tears. “Oh Molly, thank you so much for coming to stay with us. You will come again, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Molly sinks into the chair and just wants to go to bed.

“And after the baby’s born?” Mark kisses his wife’s forehead. “You will come after the baby comes, won’t you? London’s wonderfully stimulating, but fresh air and room to play are what children need. Bring Sherlock, too. He hasn’t been to the cottage for years.”

They finally leave and Molly shuts the door, rests her forehead against the cool wood. _Peace, at last_. The days away have been nice, but the pleasure of coming home, to her own place, with her own things, is just wonderful.

She crawls into bed and lies on her back, her hands on her stomach. Little Amelia or George is moving, it feels like they’re swimming in her belly. _Oh Sherlock_ , Molly wipes away a tear. _Sherlock, you should be here to see this. You’re missing out on so much_.

 _Its going to be over eventually_ , Mycroft had told her, a few days earlier in the back of his car. _What he’s doing. He’ll finish his work, and Sherlock will come home, and we’ll clear up this whole dead business, and things will return to normal._

 _Normal_. Molly rubs her stomach and wishes she could hold her baby. _What is normal? A year ago I was cutting up bodies and could see my toes and drink wine when I want it and that was normal. Now I still cut up dead bodies but there’s a rocking chair in my living room waiting to be built and wine is something I dream about. I can’t even remember what it tastes like and that’s normal. In a year I’ll probably still be cutting up dead bodies and hopefully I’ll be able to see my stomach again and I’ll have a baby and that rocking chair probably still won’t be built, and that will be normal. Even when things are normal, they change. The only constant is the dead_.

It’s a maudlin thought, so she goes to sleep, hand cradled against her stomach.

###

Mycroft wants to arrange for a car, or in the very least, a cab, to take her for her next sonogram. Molly refuses.

“I can take the bus and the Tube, Mycroft. I’m not incapable.”

“Why do you always interpret my attempts to help you as a commentary on your intelligence?”

“Because that’s how it sounds.”

“You and my brother really are too much alike, you know.”

Molly grinds her teeth. “Why didn’t you help Sherlock, when you were at Mary Mountford?”

Mycroft’s perfect eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. He’s older than her and there’s no wrinkles in that perfect forehead; does he have Botox? It wouldn’t surprise her. “I beg your pardon?”

“In that school.” Molly’s started this so there’s no way she can stop it, now. “That vile school your parents sent you to. They said that you loved it and Sherlock hated it, that he was unhappy there, that he ran away! Why didn’t you do something?”

“My mother is a mathematician, a brilliant woman, but she does not know the first thing about my school experiences, or my brother’s. What, pray, would you have liked me to do? What do you think my brother would have allowed me to do?”

“Allow?” Molly doesn’t believe this. “Allow? This isn’t about what Sherlock would have allowed, he was a little boy!”

“What makes you think I didn’t try to help him?” Mycroft examines his nails and flicks some lint off his trousers. “I helped him fake his own death; do you really think I wouldn’t have helped him when we were children?”

“He’s fighting a war for you! You faked his death so he could hunt down criminals for you!”

“You’re going to be late for your appointment.” Mycroft glances at the clock. “Its bad form to keep your sonographer waiting.”

“What, did they teach you that in Mary Mountford?” Molly grabs her coat and scarf, more angry and upset than she can say. “Well no child of mine’s going to a school like that. No child of mine is going to be bullied for being clever, or different.”

“Sherlock wasn’t bullied because he was clever.” Mycroft tosses over his shoulder as Molly leaves. “He was bullied because he made everyone aware of it. No-one likes to be told they’re stupid, Dr Hooper, children least of all, and as you may have noticed, Sherlock has never been backwards about coming forwards. You’ll let me know, how the sonogram goes?”

###

The black car’s waiting for her when Molly gets out of the hospital, but Molly jumps on the bus before the driver or Anthea are able to usher her inside. The bus is heavy with commuters, a gang of kids playing loud music on a portable stereo. An older man gives up his seat with a smile, and Molly wedges herself against the window with a well-dressed businessman on her right hand side. He smells like fresh aftershave and shoe leather, reads his newspaper with barely a glance in her direction. Molly doesn’t mind, though, she’s not really in the mood for conversation. So she reads the newest pregnancy book that Mycroft has sent to her and waits for her stop to come through the dark evening gloom.

The bus stops at every station, people getting on and off with lots of polite ‘excuse me’s’ and apologies. The businessman gets off and another man gets on, takes the seat next to Molly with a smile. He’s in a wilted suit jacket and work pants, a blue tie. He squeezes in next to Molly, solidly built, with thick, heavy fingers.

“Looks like congratulations are in order.” He says to her stomach, giving her a smile.

“Thanks.”

“My wife’s got two; you about five months along?”

Molly rubs her stomach and smiles. “Six.”

“Really? You look really well. Morning sickness gone yet?”

“More or less.” Molly returns to her book, hastily closes it when she comes to the section on labour. Not really what she wants to see on her way home, thank you very much.

“You’re brave, getting on the bus.” Her new friend smiles. “Really busy tonight.”

“Rush hour traffic.”

“Yeah, but all kinds of nutters get on the bus.” He grins. “Like me.”

Molly smiles because its polite but flinches when something sharp inches against her coat.

“Don’t talk.” The man smiles and there is no warmth there at all; when Molly looks down there’s a long, thin blade piercing her coat. _Oh, God_. “Just sit and smile at me, like we’re two friends having a catch-up. I mean what I said, about you looking well. You’re glowing.”

“Who are you?”

The man smiles. “Let’s just say that we have a mutual acquaintance. You remember Jim from IT, don’t you?”

 _Jim_. Molly’s legs are week and she’s glad that she’s sitting down. The bus stops at traffic lights and a pedestrian bangs on doors and tries to persuade the driver to let him on. Molly stares around the bus, at the other commuters, but they’re all engrossed in their books and headphones, the loud music behind her drowning out any other conversation.

“Let go of me.”

“Make another sound and I’ll cut open your belly before the traffic lights have turned green.” The man smiles and squeezes Molly’s right arm so hard that he’s going to leave a bruise. “I know, who put little Amelia or George in there. Oh, you surprised?” He says when he sees the expression on your face. “Not just Mycroft who’s got ears everywhere, you know. And your friend Mr Holmes is making quite a nuisance of himself in our neck of the woods. He's got to be bloody stupid if he thinks for one minute we’d believe he killed himself. Someone that much in love with himself couldn’t face the possibility of the world being deprived of his bloody marvellous deductions, no matter who’s under threat. So the next time he comes into your flat and rests his head on your belly when you’re asleep, you be sure to wake up and tell him that we know. And we watch.”

He stands up and is off the bus before Molly can release her breath. He waves as he walks past, taps his fingers on the glass and Molly jumps away like she’s been electrocuted.

She gets off at the next stop, cross the road and runs into the nearest pub, a lively place, crowded and full of people. _That’s good_ , she thinks as she dials numbers on her mobile, her fingers shaking. _Crowded place, lots of people. Nothing can happen to me here._

 _Just like the bus_.

Molly wants to be sick.

She sits at the bar and orders a soda water, drumming her fingers on the wood. Punters come and go, one of them puts his arm around her and breathes beer breath in her direction until the barman tells him to piss off.

“Molly.” A hand on her arm; Molly turns around and wants, more than anything, for it to be Sherlock. _Sherlock, please_. She looks up into Mycroft’s dispassionate face. “Molly, are you alright?”

 _No. Someone threatened me and Sherlock and our baby, and I want you to kill them_. Molly just says, “They know.”

 

TBC.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: thanks so much for the reviews, guys. You’re the best.

Molly rides with Mycroft in his sleek black car, her eyes on the window and the people outside. He tapped on the window, when he went past, like he was waving goodbye. She drums her fingers on her stomach but they’re shaking so hard that she can’t keep a beat.

“He threatened my baby.” Rage curls inside Molly, so visceral and terrified and terrifying her voice shakes harder than her hands. “He threatened me, threatened Sherlock.” She turns to look at Mycroft, rage a serpent inside of her, waiting to strike. “He threatened our baby.”

“Molly.” Mycroft leans forward, his face very pale and his voice very, very soft. “Listen to me very carefully, while I tell you how it will be for the next twenty-four hours. You are going to go to the hotel room that I have just reserved for you, and call Mike Stamford and tell him that you are unwell and not able to come into work tomorrow. You are going to speak to some associates of mine about what the man on the bus said to you, then you are going to take a warm bath, and go to bed and sleep for not less than twelve hours. And then tomorrow, you and I will find a new property for you and your baby. I have taken the liberty of making a list, in the event that you decided that accept my offer to provide more suitable arrangements for you and my niece of nephew. You will select the property that you prefer and I will arrange the move. Your security detail will be increased.”

Molly frowns. She’s listening to Mycroft’s instructions in that voice that’s so soft its almost hypnotic. It all sounds so reasonable, so cautious, so handled and safe and wise and the car is warm like the bath he’s just mentioned. She rubs her stomach and watches the rain through half-closed lids. “Sherlock.”

Mycroft stiffens, just a little. “Is out of the country.”

“I want to speak to him.”Molly wipes her eyes, struggles to lean forwards. “I _want_ to speak to him.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Someone threatened his child, Mycroft!”

“And I assure you, that they will be dealt with.” Mycroft reaches into his jacket pocket and comes away with a slim, silver case, flips it open. There’s cigarettes inside and he takes one out, taps it against the metal. “But for now, Molly, you need to focus on you, and your child.”

“But Sherlock-“

“Will be fine, I assure you.” Mycroft looks, for one moment, like he’s going to touch her hand but Molly isn’t sure what either of them will do if he does. So she leans back and lets him take charge, because she’s so tired and he’s just so much better at this than she is.

###

The hotel he’s chosen is nice but not too nice, on a busy road full of buses and traffic. Anthea helps her out of the car; she’s got Molly’s overnight bag in her hand, swollen with clothes. The hotel’s double doors are opened for her like she’s a politician or film star, or someone important, and a gust of warm, inviting air sweeps into Molly’s hair as she crosses the threshold.

They take the stairs to the second floor, along a corridor that doesn’t seem to end and reminds Molly very much of that corridor in _The Shining_. She watched that film with her dad when she was a little girl and had nightmares for a week afterwards until her dad soothed her fears, but she knows the any nightmares she has after tonight will last a lot longer than a week, and her dad won’t be there to make it all better when she opens her eyes. They stop at a room at the end of the corridor, a white door with 205 on the door, black numbers on a little gold plaque. Anthea opens the door for her.

“The room’s been swept and its clean, Dr Hooper.” She waits for Molly to go first, follows and shuts the door behind her, taking care to lock it.

The room has a bathroom on the right hand side, the door open. Molly peeps inside, sees the large tub and taps, the shower and those little bars of soap wrapped up like it Christmas. The bed lies beyond, a double bed with a hideous cover that touches the floor. There’s a television and a desk, two laps plus a desk lamp and an overhead light. The window is shut but Molly can still hear the traffic. The curtains are the same pattern as the duvet.

Anthea clears her throat; Molly can’t tell if she’s nervous or just needs a drink. “If the room’s unsuitable, I’m sure that we can arrange-“

“No.” Molly’s fingers trail along the cream walls; when she talks she moves her head to the side, throwing the word out over her shoulder like she’s Sherlock. “No, this room’s fine. Better than fine, actually.” She sniffs and her cheeks are wet. “Its bigger than my flat.”

Anthea puts Molly’s overnight bag on the bed, the strap falling listlessly to one side. “If there’s anything you need-“

“I’d like to be alone.”

Anthea shifts a little; again, Molly can’t tell if she’s uncomfortable with her request or has just got a stone in her shoe. _Mycroft’s certainly got a talent for employing opaque people._ “Mr Holmes has arranged for someone to stay with you tonight.”

“I don’t want someone to stay with me tonight. Please just go away and leave me alone.”

“Christine is very professional.” The first hint of uncertainty creeps into Anthea’s voice. _She’s not used to being told no. Not when Mycroft’s words are coming out of her mouth_. “Really, Dr. Hooper, its not safe for you to remain alone.”

“A man threatened to cut my baby out of me on a crowded bus at rush hour.” Molly stares at the bed and thinks about the bed in her flat. Was that where she and Sherlock made their baby, or the cold, hard, dirty bathroom floor? “I’d say I’m safer on my own than with other people, wouldn’t you?”

Anthea sighs. “She’s waiting outside.”

 _It will be over soon_ , Mycroft had told her. _No_ , she wanted to say to him now, _no it won’t_. She reaches into her handbag and takes out the sonogram picture. He or she is getting big, long like Sherlock; the sonographer had told her to talk to her midwife and doctor about birth options. _Little thing like you, natural birth might be hard_. They’d bounced around during the scan, responding to the gel and the machine on her stomach. _Light, they feel the light, and the touch_. Her hand splays on her stomach. _Not long, now_.

She puts the picture on the table by the bed, flicks on the light. “Do you want children, Anthea?”

“Not really compatible with my job, Dr Hooper.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Anthea takes her time answering. “No.”

“What, never?”

“Never, Dr Hooper.”

“Fair enough. Maybe if I’d been like you, I wouldn’t be in this mess now.”

“With respect, that’s the wrong way to look at it.”

“I know. Its just been a long day and I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself.” Molly looks at the small refrigerator, tucked under the desk. “Don’t suppose there’s any ice cream in there, is there? Bit cliché, I know, but I’d do anything for some cookie dough ice cream.”

Anthea cracks a small smile. “I’m sure I can get some for you, Dr Hooper.” She reaches for her mobile phone and her fingers fly over the keys. “The kitchen’s open for another few hours, if you want some room service.”

“Right now I’d like a bath, if its all the same to you.”

Anthea holds Molly’s mobile phone out to her. “Call Mike Stamford and tell him that you won’t be in tomorrow.”

Molly makes the call, babbles some lie to Mike that he swallows like its perfectly-cooked steak. _Someone else that I’m lying to_.

After the call to Mike comes Mycroft’s physician, who examines her and reassures her that the baby is fine. Then she spends an hour with a man who looks very innocuous except that he doesn’t have a little finger on his left hand, describing to him in every possible way, what happened on the bus and what the man who threatened her looked like.

“Is that alright?” She says after she’s told him the same thing for the fifth time. “Do you think you know who it was who threatened me?”

He pats her hand but she doesn’t like the look in his eye. Its not directed at her, though, more at the man she’s told him about. He’s got that gleam in his eye, like Sherlock used to get with a particularly interesting case.

“Don’t you worry, love. Mr Mycroft will keep you and your little ’un safe.”

Finally, when there is no-one else to talk to, Molly retreats into the bathroom. The lights are very bright after the bedroom’s still, barely-lit gloom, and Molly turns the taps on full power until she finds the temperature that she wants. In the past couple of weeks she’s found that bubble bath irritates her skin, so she leaves the water plain. She hears Anthea’s voice, in the bedroom, shuts the door so its muffled. _Quiet, I just want some quiet_.

She sits down on the edge of the tub to get undressed, huffing and puffing to reach her trainers. Are her ankles starting to swell? She can’t tell. She smoothes her hands over her stomach, more swollen than ever, now. Morning sickness has almost gone and her boobs have gotten bigger by another cup size; she can’t wear her favourite jumper anymore and has packed it away into a suitcase with the rest of her clothes. _Maybe after the baby’s here, I’ll wear them again_. She’s spied that dress as she’d packed them away, the black dress that she’d worn to that party, that disastrous Baker Street party. God, how she’d hated him, then. Now she’d give anything to have him here.

She slips into the bath and lets the water wrap around her, pretends that they’re a man’s arms. Beyond the door she can fear footsteps, voices. Mycroft’s obviously, then Anthea’s, followed by another woman’s voice. The imfamous Christine, perhaps?

A tear drips down her cheek and lands in the water, followed by another, and then another until Molly’s crying big, silent tears in the bath. They don’t last very long, which surprises her, and when she gets out of the bath she sees her face, blotchy and red. She’s never been a pretty crier. Some women look beautiful when they cry. Molly is one of the other women, who look pale and red-faced at the same time and afterwards look like they’ve had an air balloon injected under their skin.

There’s a woman there, when Molly opens the door to the bedroom. She’s tall, with short blonde hair and a very stern expression, and even though her chair is in the corner of the room, her presence gets into every nook and cranny, even under the bed and between the sheets. _You should meet Sherlock_ , Molly thinks with a hint of a smile.

“You must be Christine.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 _Her accent’s plummy_ , Molly thinks, _plummy like Sherlock and Mycroft_. She honestly didn’t think they still made people like the Holmes brothers until she met them. If she was either of them, she could spend hours picking apart everything about Christine, but she’s tired and weepy and just wants to curl up in bed.

Christine gestures to the ice cream on the counter, weeping condensation. “Anthea brought you some ice cream. She said that there was no cookie dough so she got the next best thing.”

“Did you check it for bugs and bombs?” Molly aims for humour, but the look on Christine’s face indicates that she either doesn’t find it amusing, she has actually done as Molly’s suggesting, or both. “D’you want some?”

“No, thank you.”

Molly checks the label. _Vanilla. Who the bloody hell thinks that vanilla is a substitute for cookie dough?_ She finds some digestive biscuits in the fridge and breaks them into pieces, pushing them into the vanilla ice cream. It isn’t the same, but it will do. As satisfied as she’s likely to get, she settles on the bed and flips turns on the TV.

“This isn’t a problem, is it?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“You can call me Molly, if you like. Or Dr Hooper, if you prefer.”

“Do you have a problem with me calling you Ma’am?”

“Just makes me sound a bit like the Queen.”

Christine cracks the barest hint of a smile. “I was instructed to treat you as such.”

Molly laughs at that. “Anything you want to watch on the telly?”

“I don’t watch the television, Dr Hooper.”

Molly eats some ice cream; its cold and crunchy and wonderful. “You’re probably smarter than I am. Nothing but rubbish on these days. You don’t mind if I watch, do you?”

“Do as you please.”

Molly drifts off halfway through her ice cream and when she wakes up there’s a duvet over her and the ice cream in the freezer.

###

Mycroft is in her room when she wakes up, drumming his fingers against his slim cigarette case. “Ah, Molly, good – you’re awake.”

Molly sits up but its difficult and her mouth feels full of sugar and cotton wool. “What time is it?”

“A little after nine.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Only a few minutes. Christine said that you were asleep.” He picks up a small piece of card, examining it. “Baby’s growing quite nicely. Tall, by the length of their legs. You haven’t asked to know the sex of the child?”

Molly looks at the lamp, where she’d propped the sonogram. “No. I want to be surprised.”

“An interesting idea.” Mycroft puts the sonogram on the table and stares at it for a few minutes, before giving Molly his undivided attention. “Do you intend to spend all day in bed, or shall we begin our search?”

Molly takes a quick shower and gets dressed; her comfortable trainers and maternity jeans, a jumper with knitted rabbits on the front. Mycroft eyes her like she’s lost her mind, but she returns the stare in like kind and he helps her on with her coat.

The car’s waiting for them downstairs; a bus sprays exhaust over her and she freezes, remembering the knife pressed into her stomach.

“Fine, its fine.” She says when Mycroft sees her face.

The first place Mycroft has selected looks like the club he brought her to, all those months ago. Molly spends less than five minutes in the hallway and shakes her head. “I need a home, Mycroft. Not a museum. Why can’t I just stay at my flat?”

“That flat and the building in which it sits is not suitable for a child.”

“Plenty of people live there with children, Mycroft.”

Mycroft gestures to out of the window. “The next property is just up ahead.”

“Don’t you have a country to run?” Molly says as she inspects the next property, a nice two-floor maisonette with lots of natural light and a small garden.

“Anthea is quite capable, thank you.” Mycroft runs his finger along the mantel and looks positively dismayed at what he finds. “What do you think of this place?”

Molly stares out of the window. “Your mum said that you had a lot of money.”

“She is the mathematician in the family, so she should know.”

“You pay the rent on Baker Street. I could just stay there.”

“And what kind of message would that send?”

 _I don’t care_. Molly wipes away a tear and pretends that it’s the dust. _I want to lie in his bed and smell the sheets, listen to Mrs Hudson clattering around on the ground floor_. “Seems a bit silly, to pay for his place when no-one lives there.” She glances a look over her shoulder. “Sentimental, some might say.”

“Do you like this property, or not?”

Molly sighs. “I don’t know. I suppose that means no then, doesn’t it?” She catches his arm as they get into the car. “What I’m trying to say, Mycroft, is that I don’t want your charity.”

“You are not a charity.” Mycroft’s eyes soften when he looks at her; she’s never seen him do that before. “Now get in the car before the rain soaks you to the bone.”

They spend the rest of the day like this, looking at and discarding properties. Molly always thought it would be different, when she house-hunted with a man. Ideally, she wouldn’t be six months pregnant, and even more ideally, she’d be in love with the man at her side, but she looks at Mycroft when he isn’t looking at her and realises that when it comes to the father of her child’s family, she could have done a lot worse.

The last property is a tall, narrow house wedged between two larger properties, a sliver of three floors plus a basement and a garden that gets all the light in the afternoon. Molly looks up at the large, grey stones and feels something stir, deep in her chest.

“It looked better in the pictures.” Mycroft stares up at the building and wrinkles his nose. “And Anthea assured me that it was quite the steal. Hasn’t even gone on the market, yet. Close to the Tube, obviously, and good schools, although we can obviously cross that particular bridge when we come to it.”

The hallway is about two metres wide, most of it stairs that stretch up and up and up. Light pours in from the floors above. The walls are a dirty cream, the wood covered in dust; Mycroft looks like he might combust.

“No, no, no.” He shakes his head and moves mail and newspapers aside with the tip of his umbrella. “This won’t do at all. Molly? Molly?”

Molly’s already in the kitchen, her eyes on the small garden beyond, up a little flight of stairs. There’s an old swing at the end of the garden, almost overgrown. A rabbit scampers between bushes, stopping to look at her, through the glass.

“I like it.” She says with a smile.

###

Molly goes back to work after two days, the key to her new home in her pocket. There’s a lot to thrash out: _what will happen to her flat? How much does this place cost? Does she like the idea of being shut up in a house paid for by Mycroft Holmes? What will Sherlock say?_

 _He’d tell you to take it_ , a little voice inside of her says. _He’d tell you to take advantage of his brother’s money, and smile while you did it_.

When she looks up, John Watson’s standing in front of her. Molly drops the slides on the floor, and neither of them move to pick them up.

“John!” Molly’s heart is racing out of her chest.

John’s too busy staring at her stomach. His moustache twitches when he says, “You kept that quiet.”

“Phone works both ways, John.”

Sherlock’s best friend acknowledges her rebuke with a tip of his head. “I spoke to Mike, the other day. Said you were off sick. Then I spoke to Lestrade, who told me that you were pregnant. So I went to see you, to see if you were alright. Went up to your flat, and imagine my surprise when I saw Anthea, coming out of your flat with an overnight bag.”

Molly swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. _Oh shit_. “Who’s Anthea?”

“So I thought, ‘What would Sherlock do, if he saw that?” John folds his arms, rubs the side of his nose. “So I followed her. Not hard to spot, that bloody car. Stopped at a hotel near the Home Office. Makes sense; wasn’t too fancy or too run-down, busy location, no-one has the time to look at people or ask questions on a road that busy.”

“John-“

“So I waited.” John looks like he might cry. “Saw you come out with Mycroft the next day.” He looks at her stomach. “Is it Mycroft’s?”

Molly want to laugh, but it comes out as a strangle. She bends down to pick up her slides and prays that John doesn’t see how her hands shake.

“Molly.” John’s face is close to hers, then, his hands on hers and he must, _must_ be able to feel how they shake. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Molly wipes her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” John shakes his head. “You look terrified.” He wets his lips, looks at the body on the table, back at her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Molly swallows. “I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Both.” Molly looks away and feels immeasurably guilty. _You’re betraying Mycroft after all he’s done is help you. You’re lying to John and all he wants to do is help you_. “Really, John, I can’t.”

John presses his lips together and for a moment looks desperately sad. “I don’t understand. I mean, I do and I don’t. Mycroft wouldn’t help you, not just because he can. He isn’t that altruistic. He helps nations, not people. I don’t understand why he’s helping you if the baby isn’t his.”

Molly stands up, the slides a mess in her hands. She needs John to leave the morgue, right now. “Please, John-“

“I know, how you feel about Sherlock.” John paused, presses his lips together so tightly that they turn white. “Felt, about Sherlock. I can understand how you might, upset, seek comfort from someone close to him. Things can get out of control and-“

Molly slams the slides into the sink and they shatter, glass spilling everywhere. “You’ve got a bloody nerve.” She whispers, angrily. “What right do you have to come into my morgue and talk to me like this?”

“None, except that I’m your friend, and I’m worried about you.”

“So why haven’t you picked up the phone!” Molly snaps. “When was the last time I saw you?”

They stand in silence for a long time, the only sound the water that drips out of the tap and the sound that wet glass makes when it slips and slides.

“I’m sorry.” John says, finally. “That I haven’t called you. If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t called Mrs Hudson, either.”

“Well you should.” Molly snaps, with more force than she really feels. Its not his fault, after all. _He’s just doing what Sherlock would do. He’s deducing. What was it Sherlock used to say? The only possible explanation of all the facts_. “She’s got no-one.”

John comes forward, touches her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Molly, I really, really didn’t mean to upset you.”

Molly shakes her head. _Just say what you need to to get rid of him_. “Its fine.”

“No, its not fine. I’m not Sherlock.” John gives her a weak smile. “Are you happy?”

“Yes.” Molly barks out a laugh that turns into a sob. “No. I’m terrified.”

“When are you due?”

“Not long. Three months, give or take.”

John squeezes her hand, and kisses her cheek. “Congratulations, Molly.”

###

Its a few days later, and John’s waiting for her outside Bart’s, his collar turned up against the rain. “Let me buy you a cup of tea.”

“Have to be decaf for me.” Molly smiles. She’s so tired. “I could murder a piece of cake, though.”

John takes her to a coffee shop on the corner; Molly flinches every time a bus goes past until John offers to switch seats so her back’s to the window. There’s no-one nearby and Molly’s glad; she’s not as nimble as she used to be. They order milky coffees and slices of cake and Molly’s hands shake the whole time. There’s something … off, about John at the moment. She wishes he’d shave off his moustache; it might make him easier to read.

“So, John, how have you been?” She stirs in some milk and leaves the spoon in the cup. The cake looks like you could build a house with it but she doesn’t care, and breaks a piece off.

“Fine. Quite busy, actually.” John stirs his coffee without looking at it. He’s too busy looking at Molly, and its making her nervous. Eventually he looks her in the eye and calmly, so calmly, says, “The baby’s not Mycroft’s, is it?”

Molly drops her cake into her coffee. “What?” “Of course it isn’t.”

John’s staring at her, unmoving. “Mycroft wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if she came with an instruction manual. I don’t think he even knew you existed until Sherlock died, and even then, it was only because you did Sherlock’s autopsy. Which only you and Mycroft attended.”

Molly feels like she’s on a rollercoaster without a belt, just falling, falling, _falling_. “John-”

“What was it Sherlock said, once?” John smiles. “Not one possible explanation of some of the facts; the only explanation of all the facts. Mycroft being the father of your baby explains why he’s taking care of you, buying you a bloody house. But it doesn’t take into account the fact that you are more in love with his brother now than you ever were when he was alive. Don’t try and deny it.” He says when she opens her mouth. “You’ve never been able to hide your feelings about him. I always worried that you’d get hurt.”

“Sherlock’s dead, John.” Molly whispers. “He’s dead. You know he’s dead, you saw him fall, you felt for his pulse outside Bart’s. I know that its hard, to accept it, but-“

“He locked me in a laboratory with a hallucinogenic drug, did I ever tell you that?” John leans back in his chair and stares at her. “Thought nothing of doing it. Probably took some kind of perverse pleasure in it, knowing Sherlock. He always had an answer, a theory. Had deduction down to a science. But that was just the problem: he put no stock in love, only science. A brother’s love, a woman’s love, a parent’s love. He saw it as useless sentiment.”

“Stop it.” Molly whispers, gripping the table so hard her knuckles turn white.

“You would never have looked at Mycroft twice.” John says. “Not even once. Even after Sherlock humiliated you, at the party, and about Moriarty, you still loved him. Mycroft and Sherlock never saw eye to eye but that didn’t stop him from offering me money to report back to him. At the time I thought he was up to no good but when I think about it, he was protecting Sherlock, in his own way. Just like he’s protecting him now.” He stares at her stomach. “Like you are.”

Molly stands up and grabs her coat; John takes her wrist, lightly, so not to bruise her. “A cyclist hit me as I was running towards Sherlock, the day he jumped off Bart’s roof. By the time I got up, he was already on the floor, behind the ambulance station. Anything could have happened behind there, in the thirty, fifty seconds I was on the ground. Believe me, I lived through a war. Fifty seconds is a long time. When I got to him, he was bleeding and unconscious. Wouldn’t have been difficult, to give the impression of stopping a heart, just for a moment. Crowded street, stricken best friend, body rushed straight to the hospital, too badly damaged to let anyone see it if they didn’t have to. No-one would suspect anything.” John looks into Molly’s eyes and she knows then, knows that he knows. “He let me think I was being stalked by a rabid, genetically-enhanced hound to prove a case. Why shouldn’t I believe that he faked his own death to expose the man who tried to kill us both?”

Molly’s got no answer for him, but relief is a tidal wave that washes over her. Her arm goes slack and she sinks down, down, down into the hard chair until she feels like her bum is on the floor.

###

Mycroft comes within five minutes of Molly calling him. “I trust, Dr Watson, that if you repeat a word of your conversation with Dr Hooper you will wish you had never drawn your first breath?”

John smiles and gives Molly the rest of his cake. “Good to see you too, Mycroft. Nice of you to tell me, that my best friend lied to me and you helped him. No, don’t blame Molly for spilling the beans.” He says when Mycroft glances in Molly’s direction. “I figured it out all on my own. After two years of working with Sherlock, give me some credit.”

“Am I to expect that you’ll spend days lounging around in your pyjamas, next?” Mycroft beckons a waitress to their table. “Perhaps start firing bullets into your living room wall when you get bored?”

“Don’t make fun of me.” John stares at Mycroft, unblinking. “You let me think the worst for almost eighteen months. Sherlock is alive, and he’s been in London since he died.” He looks at them both. “Does he know, about the baby?”

“Of course he knows.” Molly sips her coffee.

“And what does he intend to do about it?” John looks at her. “You two planning on getting married, when he comes back from wherever the bloody hell he is, moving out to the suburbs, maybe getting a dog?”

“My brother is unavailable, and that is all you need to know.” Mycroft orders more coffees and cake and dismisses the waitress with something that could pass for a smile. “The child and Dr Hooper are being provided for; as to anything else, I couldn’t possibly comment.”

“I’m alright, John.” Molly smiles and wishes that their waitress would hurry up. John’s cake was lovely and she’s starving. “Really. I’m pleased.”

“Pleased?” John looks like he’s about to laugh. “Pleased? You think the look on your face makes me think that you’re pleased? I don’t know you very well, Molly, but I do know that you won’t be happy with anything other than a ring on your finger. Not where Sherlock’s concerned.”

“That’s enough, now, John.” Mycroft sips his coffee and grimaces.

“This is insane.” John leans forward on the table and looks like he’s about to put his head in his hands. “This is absolutely bonkers, and so not-good that it could only be dreamed up by Sherlock. Has he got him?” He looks at Mycroft. “Moriarty? Don’t tell that a man like that acted on his own because I won’t believe it.”

“I’ve said all that I’m going to say on the matter. Please know that what was done was done for the good of the nation. I’m sure that’s a sentiment you’re familiar with, as a military man.”

Mycroft leaves them then, but there’s a black car waiting for Molly when she and John leave the coffee shop. Its dark and raining and John turns his collar up against the wind. His face is blank and inscrutable; she’s got no idea what he’s thinking. Maybe she doesn’t want to know.

“I wanted to tell you.” Molly says quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the rain. “Really, John, I did. But they wouldn’t hear of it. Sherlock said that the only way they would think it was real is if you believed it.” She swallows. “If everyone believed it. I lied to you all.”

“So did Mycroft. And Sherlock.” John’s looking at her kindly. “Don’t blame yourself. I will kill him, when he gets back, though.”

“He was trying to protect you.” Molly looks down. “You know what he’s like.”

“And I know that you’ll forgive him anything. Even asking you to keep this secret for you, even though its killing you to do it.” John blows out a long breath and it carries in the dark, wintry coldness. “Why do I get the horrible feeling that even though Sherlock’s the one who’s dead and tracking down murderous psychopaths, you’re the one who is going to come out of all of this the worst?”

“Are you still seeing Mary?”

“Yes.” A real, genuine smile crosses John’s lips. “Yes, I am.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“She’d like to meet you.”

Molly touches his arm. “You can’t tell her, John.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it.” Molly grips his arm as tightly as she can. “Or Lestrade, or Mike, or anyone.” She swallows. “A man threatened me, on the bus. He knew, about Sherlock. About the baby.”

“Molly-“

“Mycroft’s dealing with it.” Molly wipes her mouth, the fear she felt on that bus rushing back. “Really John, its fine.”

###

Sherlock’s waiting for her, when she gets back to her flat, drinking tea at the kitchen table. The tap drips into the sink but that’s the only noise inside. Outside, the rain hits the windows and drums against the glass; _how many more nights will I spend here before I leave?_

“There was one of Mycroft’s lackeys here when I got here. Tall, blonde, sour-faced.”

“Her name is Christine. Did she see you?”

“Of course not. She got a call, from my brother, no doubt. Why does he have someone in your flat? I spotted the security team across the road and in the flat below; no couple’s that happy. One thing to have security that you clearly don’t know about living in your building, quite another to have someone waiting for you in your flat.”

“Someone threatened me.”

“Threatened you?” Sherlock’s voice gets just slightly louder, less of a whisper.

“On the bus.” Molly swallows and the fear comes back, tight and visceral and angry, so angry. If she ever gets her hands on the man who threatened her, she’ll kill him without thought. “He knows. About the baby. I think he was one of Moriarty’s men.”

Sherlock’s wearing a shirt and trousers that are as black as his hair and make him looker paler than ever. His long fingers drum on the table. There’s a piece of card there, something Molly can’t see, just millimetres away from the little finger on his left hand. _The sonogram_ , she notes when she comes closer. _He was looking at the sonogram_.

“You can’t tell the gender, from this picture.”

“I want to be surprised.”

“That’s one train of thought.”

“And you don’t like surprises.”

“Not usually.” Molly takes off her coat and comes closer. “You look tired. And you’ve lost weight. Do you want something to eat?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You must eat something.” Molly’s fingers touch the sonogram, the image of their baby. “You can keep this, if you want to.”

Sherlock blinks once, twice, his eyes on the image now covered by her hands. “Best not. Wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.” His fingers move, just slightly, so their skin is pressed together. _He’s hot_ , Molly thinks. “I … I would never want that to happen.”

“I know.” Molly’s left hand comes out and before she can stop herself, its in his hair, those thick black curls that cling to his head. Six months later and she still hasn’t forgotten what they feel like, dark silk between her fingers.

Sherlock puts one arm around her, then the other. She’s close but he pulls her closer and his forehead rests lightly on her bump. Shocked into silence, Molly’s mouth opens but no words come out so she just stands there, Sherlock Holmes’ head pillowed on her stomach.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She says. “What you’re doing, I mean.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer her, just sits with his head pressed against her; she can feel his warm breath through her shirt. Molly leans forwards slightly, ever so slightly, to press her lips against the crown of his head. His hair is damp and smells clean, clean like unscented soap, the same kind you get in hotel rooms. He breathes out a long, deep, ragged breath when her lips meet his scalp, Molly thinks that he’s crying but she’s almost afraid to look.

 _There’s so many things I want to say to you_ , Molly thinks as she looks down at the father of her child. _I want to tell you that John knows, about you and me and the baby. I want to tell you about the flat and Mycroft and about staying with your parents. I want to tell you that I know about Mary Mountford and the train to Glasgow, about the stolen violin and Redbeard. I want you to know that I know all these things about you, and I understand you now, a little better. I want to tell you about the baby names, ask what you think of them even though you say you aren’t interested. Mainly, though, I want to tell you that I love you, and I worry about you_.

Her lips still haven’t left his scalp and his hair tickles her skin. His hands are snug against her waist, so much thicker now than when he last touched her there. He’s not gripping hard, just enough to keep her there, not so hard that she couldn’t step out of his warmth, if she wanted. Her lips move south, down the side of his head, brushing his ear. His skin is soft, just the barest hint of stubble scratching her skin. _He’s shaking_ , she realises. _He’s shaking_. Her skin is damp and she can’t tell if they’re her tears or his. _However hard this must be for me, its just as hard for him, in its own way_.

She kisses his skin again and this time his head turns, meeting her mouth with his, like they’re old friends who haven’t seen each other for a long time. _Soldiers and their sweethearts_ , she thinks as his mouth opens for her. _Soldiers and their sweethearts, reunited after a long time apart_. His hand slips from her waist, glides up her body until it strokes the flesh between her hairline and back, the soft flesh on her neck. He picks her up, gently, like she’s made of glass, and takes her into the bedroom.

###

The bedsheets are soft, well-used. Molly hasn’t washed them in a while; now they’re half on the floor, half on the bed, one wrapped around her leg and thrown over Sherlock’s waist. The rain pitter-patters against the window, that familiar orange-black light spilling into the room. There’s no lights outside the room that Molly intends for hers, in the new house.

“I’m moving soon.”

Sherlock’s lying on his side, watching her. He’s not close to her but then, he’s not far away from her, either. “A house on Dunstable Street, I know. Mycroft was horrified, but he was the one who put it on his list.”

“There’s a garden there, a bit skinny but long. I thought I could start a herb garden.”

“Children can learn a lot from plant life, botany.”

“More space than here.” Molly looks at the bedroom, the furniture that she’s accumulated over the years. “There’s a room at the back that will be suitable for George. Or Amelia.”

She feels Sherlock’s eyes on her. “Your father was called George.”

Molly nods. “I think that me … the baby … we could be happy there. It’s a nice house, Sherlock, big enough without being like that museum that Mycroft likes so much. Even space for your parents, if they want to come and stay. They’re anxious to be involved. More anxious than my mum.” She swallows, and makes herself meet Sherlock’s pale blue eyes. “I thought, when the baby’s older, I’d get a dog.”

Sherlock goes very still, unmoving. Eventually he says, “Dogs can be good for children of all ages. Helps with socialisation.”

“Your mum told me about Redbeard.” Molly touches Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ve been thinking, about schools-“

Sherlock stands up, the sheet falling away. God, he’s beautiful naked, lean and muscular without being showy about it. _Solid_ , Molly thinks. _Tall and solid and just reassuring_. She sits up, clutching the sheet to her heavy breasts. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” She says quietly.

“I’m not upset.” Sherlock looks at the window but doesn’t go closer. _Worried about who’s looking in_ , Molly realises. She remembers what the man on the bus said about Sh _erlock. Sleeps with his head on your stomach. She swallows._ He looked. He saw.

Sherlock blows out a long, deep breath, runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t … I don’t know how to do this.”

“What, you think I’m an expert?”

“No.” Sherlock shuts his eyes. “No, Molly, you don’t understand. I’d be no good at this. I am no good at this. I’m the world’s only consulting detective, not a parent. Not a father.” He looks at her. “Not a partner. Not in that way. John can barely tolerate me; what makes you think that you could?”

“And I’m a pathologist.” Molly says. “But in less than three months, I’ll be a mother. That doesn’t make me less of a pathologist. And you’re not a consulting detective at the moment. At the moment you’re dead.” She touches his shoulder. “Come back to bed.”

He shakes his head, gives her a half-smile. “In a minute.”

###

Molly’s bed grows cold and Sherlock’s body does not warm it. Molly wakes like she’s coming out of a long dream; when she walks into the kitchen in an oversized t-shirt, its Christine that she finds in the kitchen, drinking tea and reading the news on her mobile phone.

“Dr Hooper.” She says with a nod. “More tea in the pot, if you want it.”

Molly shakes her head, her eyes drawn to the table. The sonogram picture has gone, but her eyes seek the fridge and find it there, pinned next to the three-month scan and secured with a magnet. But there are other papers there now, papers that weren’t there before. She comes closer and sees them, really sees them. Dark lines on white paper; it looks like pencil or even pen. There are long lines and soft curves; Molly picks up the papers and shuffles them like they’re a deck of cards. There’s a girl there, no more than five, with hair so dark and luscious that Molly thinks she can reach into the page and touch them. Her cheekbones are sharp like glass, eyes dark like the ones Molly sees in them mirror. _A daughter_. And then a boy with Molly’s rounder, fuller face and pale eyes, a crop of curls on his head. _A son_.

###

A few days later, Molly’s wrapping the first of her belongings in newspaper, in preparation for the move. The big things will be moved by professionals. She’s sold some things, old CDs and books that she hasn’t touched in years, DVDs and videos covered in a fine film of dust. But some things are ready to be moved, so she’s sat in the middle of her living room, wrapping trinkets and mementoes in newspaper, a glass of cold water at her feet. If she squints, it almost tastes like wine. God, what she wouldn’t give for a nice glass of cold white wine. When she moved into this flat, she drank a bottle of white wine to herself and tried to assemble the flat-pack furniture she bought. She didn’t build any, just woke up with an Alan-key stuck to her forehead.

She reaches for a sheet of newspaper, old copies of the _Daily News_ that John had kindly brought round for her, earlier in the afternoon. He’d touched the rocking chair, still waiting to be assembled, and the other baby stuff that she’d bought, and something strange had crossed his face. _Did he want his own family_ , Molly wondered, _or was he marvelling at Sherlock’s child, being almost upon him?_

“Have you heard from him?” He’d asked as he left her alone.

Molly wants to smile and remember the night a few days’ past. It had been better, than the last time. _He’s getting better at this. Soon he really will have ruined me for other men, as if it wasn’t already obvious_. “No, not really.”

John had nodded once, left her alone. When he first came to work for Sherlock, Molly had resented him. He was there, all the time, taking up Sherlock’s time and energy, the shiny new toy that Sherlock wanted to play with. She’d hated herself for thinking that way; thankfully it had not lasted long. As she looked at John, she wondered if he understood, now, how she had felt all those years ago. _Probably not. If he doesn’t hate his friend for making him think he was dead, how could he resent her for carrying Sherlock’s child?_

The problem with wrapping things in newspaper, Molly reflects while packing, is that one is always tempted to read the stories hidden in the paper. This particular sheet was page seven, full of the small stories, the ones no-one bother with. Molly’s seen a few of her corpses there a few times, misadventures that she’s put her initials to. _I gave some of you names_ , she thinks.

She scans the headlines; drunken assaults, minor celebrity gossip, sportsmen and women suspended for doping. But there, tucked away in a corner, she sees it, the story that sucks the breath right out of her lungs. A man, washed up on the beach, gunshot wound to the head.There’s a picture, an artist mock up next to a police appeal for information. She closes her eyes, and sees his face, his knife pressed against her belly.

She goes to the kitchen with the sheet, lights the hob and watches the corner of the newspaper catch light. The newspaper hovers over the sink as she holes the paper in her hand, watching as the face burns away to ash. _He got you, you bastard_.

When the article and picture are both gone, she runs the tap to wash away the ash and opens the window to let out the smoke. Then she goes back into the living room, and continues to pack.

TBC.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ve been away for a few days but I’ve been itching to get back to this story! So without further ado, let’s do that, shall we?

It’s a gloomy morning, still dark and dewy, when Molly wakes up to a sharp pain and water, wetness, everywhere. She swings her legs out of bed, flicks on the light next to the bed. The bedroom’s still got boxes everywhere, Molly just can’t find the energy to unpack anything. _Not that it matters now_ , she thinks as she grits her teeth and reaches for her mobile phone, gasping when the pain ripples through her like a wave. The next one makes her cry out, a wail that brings light into the hallway and footsteps on the floorboards.

“Molly!” John bashes his leg against something as he dashes towards the bedroom; she hears a string of swear words that she can probably improve on as she struggles to get out of bed.

“You didn’t need to be here, you know.”

“Don’t talk rubbish.” John appears in the doorway, rubbing his shin. He’s wearing striped pyjamas bottoms and a grey t-shirt with a curry stain on it. He looks tired and bleary but he’s there, helping her to her feet. “Of course I was going to stay.”

“Mary will think we’re up to something.”

“Chance would be a fine thing.” Mary’s wearing jogging bottoms and trainers without the laces done up, her short blonde hair sticking up at all angles. _How did I get two roommates_ , Molly wonders, but then remembers how they came to her house after she moved in and built the cot and the rocking chair and the white chest of drawers and somewhere along the line, decided that they were going to stay, as her due date got closer. “You doing okay, Molls?”

“Great, just bloody great.” Molly gasps again, clutches her stomach. _Her shoes, where are her shoes?_ “Nothing like labour to perk you up in the morning.”

“Its barely bloody morning.” John yawns, his hands on Molly’s overnight bag, the one that they packed together. If Sherlock had been here it would have been full of eyeballs and probably a skull thrown in for good measure; John had packed two dressing gowns (for pre- and post-delivery), slippers, socks and a pillow and a baby car seat that he found on the internet. Mary had packed three bestsellers, lip balm and hairbands, and lots of pain medicine. Molly had packed her favourite toiletries and some comfortable clothes that weren’t too ugly, including a nursing bra that’s probably the ugliest thing she’s ever seen, things for the baby that look much too small for the size of her bump. _I wonder if I could get away with packing a bottle of wine, too. God knows I think I’m going to need a drink after this_.

“Help me up.” Molly winces. “Where are my shoes?”

“Got them here.” Mary’s got Molly’s shoes in her hand, flip-flops with a daisy pattern on the front. “D’you want me to call Mycroft?”

“Its already taken care of.” Anthea appears in a suit so sharp that Molly could cut her fingers on the creases, perfect hair and bloody false eyelashes. Molly’s got sleep in her eye and is in the throes of labour. Life’s so unfair. “The car’s waiting downstairs.”

One of the perks about being a minor civil servant, Molly realises as she braces her feet against the passenger seat and thanks whatever God exists that Mycroft had the foresight to not only put down a towel to cover the upholstery, but to also meet her at the hospital, is that the cars they provide come with a rather nifty little magnetic light that the driver has stuck to the car roof. It flashes red and clears the road; _I’ve never seen the streets so empty_.

Another contraction hits her just as the car pulls up outside the hospital. Its much brighter and cleaner than she remembers. There’s two nurses waiting there with a wheelchair, pleasant smiles on their faces. _Of course they’re smiling_ , Molly huffs and puffs. _They aren’t the ones in bloody labour_. She reaches for Mary’s hand and feels the trembles in her body. _Not just the adrenaline_ , she realises as she stares up at the bright hospital lights. _Fear. Terror. This is really happening, and I’m terrified_.

“Did you get through to my mum?”

Mary nods, but her eyes are flat. “She’s on her way.”

“Is she really on her way?” Molly gets into the wheelchair; God she didn’t know the pain would be like this. “Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

Mary squeezes her hand and pushes Molly’s hair out of her face. “She’ll be here soon, I promise. Your brother too. He said your sister’s coming in from Australia.”

Molly squeezes her eyes shut and tears leech out from the corners. “What about-“

Mary shakes her head and squeezes. “I’m really sorry, Moll. Mycroft said he couldn’t be here. I don’t even think he knows.”

That’s the last coherent thought Molly has, as they wheel her into the hospital. _Sherlock doesn’t know. He’s going to miss it, because he doesn’t know_.

###

Molly wakes up in a private room where everything is white and sterile and she can smell bleach. She wants to sit up but she’s too groggy, and even moving her toes is painful. _Where’s my baby? I want to see them_. She wets her lips; her throat’s so dry. Everywhere aches. Her hair is still damp with sweat, she can feel it, dried on the sides of her scalp like salt. God, she’d give anything for a shower. And a glass of water. She feels so dirty, sticky and sweaty and disgusting. She looks down at her toes. _I can see them now_. She wiggles her toes but the pain’s so bad she almost throws up.

“She’s awake.” She can hear a voice, a woman’s voice. When she turns her head, Mary’s there, a soft smile on her lips and Molly starts to cry. “Oh no, Molly, don’t cry, its alright. John. John!” She slaps John’s shoulder; he’s asleep in the chair next to the bed and he jerks awake with a start.

“I’m awake!”

“So’s Molly, you big lug.” Mary’s smiling at Molly, reaching for her hand. “How are you feeling?”

Molly wets her lips. “How’s my baby?”

“Oh Molly, she’s beautiful” Rick’s there in a chair, just a few paces away from the bed. He’s been crying, Molly can always tell when he has. But he looks so happy.

“Where’s Mum?” Rick sniffs, reaches for his sister’s hand. “Getting a cup of tea. How are you feeling?”

“Sore.”

“I’ll bet.”

“He wanted to hold him, but I told him not a chance.” Mary’s smile is so wide that Molly’s sure her mouth will split wide open. “He might be your brother, but he’s not holding your baby before you do.”

Molly reaches for her hair, runs a hand through it. God, she feels horrible. _But it doesn’t matter_ , she realises as she puts her feet on the floor. _None of it matters. All that matters is the little bundle in that cot_. “Help me up.”

“Steady.” John touches her arm and eases her back into bed. “You need your rest. Had quite a time of it, you know. You’ve been asleep for hours.”

“What day is it?” John leans back on his chair and peers at the clock. “Tuesday. Now you sit there and I’ll get her for you.”

“Her?” Molly’s heart lurches. “She’s a … a girl?”

Mary slaps John’s arm and scowls. “Nice one, John. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

"Rick spilled the beans first!"

“Its okay.” Molly puts a hand to her mouth; her eyes are full of tears. _How is she meant to see her baby – her daughter – when she’s crying?_ “Please, I just want to see her.”

Mary smiles, and Molly sees then that her eyes are full of tears, too. “I think we can arrange that.”

They help Molly out of bed; she refuses the wheelchair so Rick and John help her up, a hand on each arm (Rick’s considerably firmer than John’s), and she shuffles towards the cot, and there, nestled in a pink blanket and wrapped up like she’s a Christmas present, is her daughter.

“Sit down.” John pushes a chair closer to the cot and puts a bit of light pressure on her shoulder. “Be easier for you to give her a cuddle, if you sit down.”

“I want to hold her.” Molly reaches into the cot to pick up her daughter. “I want to hold her.”

 _She’s so long_ , is her first thought. Even wrapped up, snug and tight, her daughter’s long. _She’s going to be tall. She’s long and lean but tiny at the same time, so tiny. I can’t believe she grew inside me, that I spent hours pushing her out. Now she’s here, and I’m holding her, and she’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen_.

“Hi, Amelia.” Molly touches her daughter’s long, straight nose, looks into the brown eyes. _Dad’s eyes_ , she realises with a choked sob. _She’s got Dad’s eyes. Dad’s eyes and Sherlock’s lashes, long and wasted on a man. His cheekbones, too_. She touches Amelia’s mouth, smiles a little. _My mouth, though_. She bites back tears but its no use so she just cries. _Sherlock, you’re missing it. You’re missing so much_. “I’m your mummy. My name’s Molly. And these.” Molly looks up at the three people in her room and thinks about the ones who are missing, and the ones who are dead, and the ones who aren’t. “These are your family.”

###

Mrs Hudson comes to visit and brings a bag full of knitted onesies and hats, booties and gloves, dresses and jumpers and cardigans in white and pink and blue, some even with daisies on them.

“Mrs Hudson.” Molly wipes away tears. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

“Hush now, dear.” Mrs Hudson pats Molly’s hand and her eyes are very wet. “When John told me your news, I just couldn’t stop. There’s enough there for a year, I tried to make them bigger as I went but there might be a few that are a bit small. I didn’t expect her to be so tall!”

“She’s a big girl, alright.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs Hudson is firm. “She’s absolutely perfect. Lovely crop of hair, too, even at her age.”

“Yeah.” Molly stares at the mop of dark curls on Amelia’s dead and wonders just what Mrs Hudson thinks of all this. “No chance of her going bald.”

“And how are you, dear?” Mrs Hudson’s brought homemade biscuits with her and they melt on Molly’s tongue. _Oh why not_ , she thinks as she reaches for a second. _Having children’s hungry work. I’ve earned a biscuit, haven’t I?_ “A niece of mine had a baby once, but she was never right again, after that. But you look like you’re being well looked after.”

“Yes.” Molly looks around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. “Can’t complain, really.”

“Awfully good, you having your own room. Jane was on a ward with other women and she didn’t like it one bit.” Mrs Hudson pecks her cheek before she leaves, squeezes her hand and makes her promise that Molly will bring Amelia to Baker Street, once they can leave the hospital. Molly watches her leave and wonders how Mrs Hudson would feel about being a third grandparent.

Her mother is the same, only slightly more obvious than Mrs Hudson; she sits in the chair next to the bed wearing new jeans and a jumper that Molly wouldn’t mind owning herself. Her hair is freshly blow-dried and there’s a slick of lipstick on her lips. Molly’s still trying to manage feeding Amelia and dressing herself, but her mum coos over her granddaughter like she gave birth to her herself.

“Lovely room, Molls – you didn’t tell me you’d been shagging a rock star.”

“Mum!” Molly didn’t even know her mother knew the meaning of the word ‘shagging’. “Don’t say things like that in front of Amelia.”

“Relax, love, its not like she can understand me. She won’t be talking for another few years yet.”

 _Not bloody likely considering who her dad is_ , Molly thinks as she looks at Amelia, with her crop of heavy dark hair and brown eyes that are closed tight. She’s opening her eyes a little now, looking at everything although Molly isn’t sure if her daughter is seeing anything, or if Molly is just seeing things that aren’t there.

“This is nice.” Her mum plucks the bottom of Amelia’s outfit, a cute little blue dress and white cardigan. “Where d’you find this?”

“Mrs Hudson made it.”

“Who – the housekeeper for that horrible man you were in love with?”

“Landlady, Mum, not housekeeper. And I wasn’t in love with Sherlock Holmes. And Mrs Hudson was John’s landlady too. He’s lovely. And I’m not in love with him.”

Her mum sniffs. “I brought Amelia some clothes. Not handmade, but I’m so busy I don’t have time to sew. And my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely, Mum. Thanks.”

Her mum looks around the room, tapping her fingers against her handbag. “So are you going to tell me who the father is, then?”

“Mum-“ “We’re in St Mary’s hospital, Molly. You know who gets born here? Royalty. Prince George. Prince William. Royalty and rock stars, that’s who has babies here. That chap, the one in the band, his fancy piece gave birth here, a few years ago. Is your daughter’s dad royalty, or a rock star.”

“Neither.” Molly rubs her head. She’s got a headache. “Has Sally arrived yet?”

“She’s staying in a hotel.” Her mum sniffs again. “Left her husband, if you can believe that. What is the matter with my children, that they can’t stay together with the fathers of their children?”

Molly just wants this conversation to be over. “Rick doesn’t seem to be doing too badly.”

“Hum.” Her mother shakes her head. “We’ll see how long that lasts.” She stares at Amelia and tears prickle her eyes. “Oh Molly, I wish your Dad was here to see this.”

Molly doesn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she just holds Amelia tighter and breathes in her fresh, clean baby smell. _So do I, mum, so do I_.

###

Molly’s almost ready to leave the hospital when she plucks up the courage to ask the nurse what her mother wanted to know.

“I’m not on a ward, like the other mums.”

The nurse peeks up from her examination; blonde hair just visible between Molly’s legs. Her feet are in stirrups and her toenails are an absolute disgrace.

“Count yourself lucky.” She says. “Hard to sleep, no privacy. One of my friends gave birth at the hospital down the road, her boyfriend broke up with her on the ward, two days after giving birth, if you can believe that.”

“That’s awful, I’m sorry.”

The nurse smiles, continues her examination of Molly’s stitches. “Maybe its better that the dad isn’t on the scene?”

“He is.” Molly rubs her stomach, still swollen and distended. Its normal, she knows, but she wishes that it was just a little bit flatter. “He works overseas. Sometimes its hard to get in touch with him.”

The nurse nods. “My friend’s in the army. Goes away for months at a time. Can be hard. His wife hates it. Almost broke them up a few times.”

Molly stares at the ceiling. “I know the feeling.”

###

“Do I get visitors, when I’m asleep?” She asks one of the nurses, later that week, as she’s getting ready to go home.

Today’s nurse is young, probably newly-qualified. She’s pretty, with a little button nose and lots of freckles. _She must be good, to work here_. That makes Molly feel a little better. She’s not afraid or ashamed to admit that she wants the best for her child.

The nurse smiles and makes some notes on a chart. “Not that I’ve seen, love.”

Molly gives her a half-smile, but her fingers linger on the items next to Amelia’s cot, the soft toys where each body part is made from a different fabric and different colours, the blanket that she didn’t bring with her but is made from softest wool. _Mycroft_. She presses it to her nose, sure that she can smell leather, just like the car seats. _He organised all of this but can’t come to see his own niece. His parents can’t come to see their own grandchild in case it raises questions_. It makes her sadder than she can say. He was so excited, in his own way. Not like his parents, or even Sherlock, or John trying to build every piece of baby furniture in sight ( _just what has John told Mary and Rick about her rather luxurious birth surroundings_ , she wonders), but in his own way, she’s seen the excitement in his eyes, the way he lingered over the sonogram pictures. She’s felt it in the nurse’s gentle, expert touch, the lovely food she’s been given and the car that is quite literally fit for a king or queen. _Oh yes_ , Molly realises as she packs her and Amelia’s things, _Mycroft was more than excited about this baby. And after everything, he couldn’t show it_.

She’s stuffing bottles and nappies into Amelia’s bag when she feels it, hard plastic that she can get her fingers around.

“What the bloody hell is this?” She stares at Amelia, fed and asleep in her car seat, and smiles fondly. “Have you been stealing toys from the other children already? Your dad will have a word, if he ever sees you. He’ll probably tell you well done though. He’s like that, your dad.”

She’s not sure if its thinking that Sherlock will ever see Amelia, or finding the small, plastic red setter figure tucked in her bag, but Molly cries all the way back to her house, and despite Mary’s words and Rick’s hugs, and John driving as gently as he can, nothing can make it stop.

###

Sally insists that Molly needs her help, looking after Amelia. Molly thinks that Sally just needs somewhere to stay. As it turns out, Sally wants to spend time with her sister and help her unpack. And drink lots of wine.

“Mum said that you’d left Bradley.” Molly watches Sally bounce Amelia up and down on her lap and drink red wine at the same time; Mycroft would be horrified but Molly can’t bring herself to say anything. There’s sadness in her sister’s eyes that she hasn’t seen before and tiredness that clings to her shoulders. _Relationships are exhausting_ , she realises.

Sally rolls her eyes, but Molly doesn’t miss the flash of pain in her sister’s eyes. “I want to come home. Oz is great, but it isn’t here. And I miss you and Rick and even Mum, when she isn’t being a pain in the arse. Can you believe that she wanted me to pump you for information about Amelia’s dad? I told her to piss off so she checked me out of my hotel when I was out sightseeing. Bloody cheeky cow, I tell you.”

“That’s Mum for you.”

“If Dad was alive, she’d never get away with it.” Sally knocks back her glass of wine and refills it, pours some for Molly until she shakes her head. “You can have one, surely? A bit of dried milk won’t kill her, Molly. And when was the last time you had a drink with your little sister?”

“How long are you here for?”

“For good, I told you.” Sally takes a long, not-so-healthy swig from her glass. “Can I smoke outside?”

“I thought you stopped when you moved.”

“Started again. Glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other; that’s the only way to get through my marriage right now. Plus I’ve lost twelve pounds since I started smoking again.”

“I’m sure that will make you feel much better when you’ve got lung cancer.”

“Mum’s lost weight. New hairdo, too.” Sally’s found Molly’s biscuit stash, a gift from Mrs Hudson. “D’you think she’s got a fancy man in that retirement home?”

“If she has, she wouldn’t tell me.” Sally stares at her sister and bounces her niece on her lap. “She’s pretty. Big. She’ll be tall when she gets older, and with cheekbones like that she could be a model. Must have been a hard labour.”

“Hard enough.”

“You look well, though.” Sally covers Molly’s hand with hers. “How do you feel, honestly?”

“Tired. Sore. Wish my tummy would go down. Wish I could sleep for a week.”

“Better get used to it.”

“What about your kids? You can’t stay here and leave them without a mum.”

“I don’t know.” Sally looks sad, more sad than Molly’s ever seen her. She puts a hand to her mouth and a tear slips free, followed by another. She hugs Amelia close and her tears soak into the dress that their mum bought, a cute little thing with pink polka dots on the bodice. “I don’t know. Oh God, Moll, what am I going to do?”

The spare bedroom sheets smell like Mary and John, but Sally doesn’t seem to mind. She slips into sleep much quicker than Molly expected, and her snores echo down the hallway. Molly sits in Amelia’s room, in the rocking chair, and wonders just what she’s going to do.

###

Mycroft brings his parents to visit Molly and Amelia on a rainy afternoon. Molly’s just about starting to feel human again, but Amelia’s not sleeping and is screaming the house down when the doorbell goes.

“I saw your sister take the Tube to Westminster.” Mycroft looks this way and that but his parents aren’t as subtle and cross the threshold without waiting for an invitation. “Is she off to petition the PM about bringing her children back here without their father raising an objection? It could be arranged, I’m sure.”

“Oh hush, Mycroft.” Mark can barely contain his glee and Cora is already holding out her arms for the baby. “You’re about to meet your niece for the first time and you’re still prattling on about the PM. No wonder you’ve never got kids of your own. And just look at her!” He exclaims when he sees his granddaughter for the first time. “Oh, Molly, isn’t she perfect!”

“A perfect mix of you both.” Cora adds. Mark and Cora sit on the sofa in the living room and stare at Amelia like she’s the most amazing thing in the world; Mycroft and Molly drink tea in the kitchen and eat the rest of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits.

“Thank you, for the room.” Molly covers Mycroft’s hand with her own. “And … I’m sorry.”

If Mycroft’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Whatever for?”

“Whatever for?” Molly shakes her head. “For everything. I … I didn’t realise it until I was in that hospital, receiving the best care in the world, that this must be so hard for you, and your parents, not being able to see her. She’s your only niece, and their only grandchild, and you couldn’t be there because-“

“Molly.” Mycroft takes her hand, and removes it from his with a gentle pat. “You owe me nothing, least of all an apology. Now let us go into the living room, and enjoy the time with your daughter.”

Molly nods, her brain whirring. “I wasn’t sure, what to put on the birth certificate. For her dad’s name, I mean. She’s got my surname.”

“Sherlock will come home soon, Molly. His work is almost done, and then you can decide what is to be done.”

The Holmes family stay until Mycroft’s mobile phone beeps and Anthea appears at the door. “Your sister is a ten minute walk away. Come on, Mummy.”

Cora kisses Amelia’s head and hugs Molly as hard as she can. “Come and visit, when you’re feeling up to it.”

Sally rings the bell just as Molly’s finally put Amelia down to sleep, and presents her with a petite blonde like she’s a present to be unwrapped at Christmas. “This is Noelle.” She says with a grin. “She lives five doors down and had her baby at Mary’s too.”

Molly gives her sister a look that is meant to say _are you joking?_ But invites Noelle into her house and asks her if she would like a cup of tea and a biscuit.

“Best not.” Noelle wears white jeans and her lower body is the same size as one of Molly’s thighs. “Caffeine’s terrible for your skin and I don’t eat carbs.”

“Oh. Well.” Molly watches the kettle boil and drums her fingers against her jumper. “All the more for me, then.”

Noelle watches Sally smoke on cigarette after another in the back garden, putting the stubs into an old plant pot with a dead fern in it. “Little Lavinia’s going to be three in a few weeks.”

“That’s nice.”

“I met her dad at a concert about ten years ago.” Noelle has a ring on a chain around her neck, she plays with it and watches Sally’s fingers go to her mouth, her cheeks hollow inwards as she sucks. “Backing dancer. It sounds so predictable. His manager told me that he had a girl in every port, every city. Lavinia’s probably got brothers and sisters all over the world that she’s never met. The woman who lives at the end of the road? She’s a special friend of one of the Shadow Cabinet. Got two kids, a girl and a boy.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Noelle smiles and Molly worries that her face might crack. “We’re all in the same boat, here. Rich, wealthy, handsome dad, in the public eye, got to worry about appearances. We all have different interests, but we get together for coffee when we can. One of the woman has a big basement so we do yoga and then have smoothies. Carb-free, obviously. Its nice, to know that you’re not alone. Your sister said that she’s worried about you, rattling around in this big house with just a baby and no friends. It’s a shame, about her and her husband.”

Noelle waves goodbye and Molly marches into the kitchen to confront Sally. “You dragged that woman into my house and told her that I’d been shagging a rock star. Honestly, Sal, what were you thinking?”

“Don’t say shagging, Moll.” Sally coos over Amelia and presses kisses to her face. “Babies pick up on stuff. Julia’s first word was beer because Bradley was always cracking open a can. And you need friends, Molly.”

“Not the women who live on Desperate Mistress Street.”

“Noelle is a nice lady, Molly. And you live here too, now.”

“I am nothing like those women.” Molly can feel her face getting very hot. “Nothing. He isn’t married, Sal. He isn’t married and I’m not being hidden away-“

“So where is he, Moll?” Sally covers her sister’s hand and smiles. “Why isn’t he here? And why were you in St. Mary’s with no other women and nurses to wait on you hand and foot?”

“Its complicated. But he’ll be home soon.”

Sally nods, touches her wine glass with her fingers. “One of Bradley’s friends does special ops. Not so special, I suppose, since he talks about it whenever he has more than two beers, but he’s in the military, goes away for months at a time.” She pours more wine. “What’s he like, Amelia’s dad?”

Molly sighs. The need, want, desire to unburden herself is so strong that she can taste it, like the wine she misses and the biscuits that she eats. “He’s clever.” She says at length. “He’s really clever. He’s the smartest man I know, but one of the stupidest.”

“Sounds like a right catch. Is he fit, at least?”

Molly smiles. “Very.”

“Good in bed?”

 _You have no idea_. “Sal!”

“What? I can ask, can’t I?” Sally sighs. “I went to see a solicitor today, about Bradley.”

“So you’re really going to go through with it?” Molly feels sad at the idea. She hasn’t seen Bradley in years but she remembers how happy her sister was, when she got married, young and hopeful and full of dreams. _What’s happened in the intervening years to make her so unhappy?_ “I don’t know.”

###

“She knows.” Sherlock is sitting on Molly’s bed when Molly comes in from the bathroom, towelling her hair. “What she’s going to do about her husband. She had divorce papers drawn up this afternoon. Irreconcilable differences would be my guess although it was hard to tell from that distance. She spent two hours in a lingerie shop on Oxford Road, though, although from the underwear I couldn’t really tell if she was the one having the affair, or him.”

“Talk any louder and she’ll hear you.” Molly’s heart’s lurches at the sight of him. _Are you here? Are you back now, for good?_

Sherlock snorts. He’s wearing a dark suit and a white shirt with little pearl buttons. His hair’s messier, curlier than usual and he looks tired. Molly wants to run her fingers through his hair and feel that perfectly-shaved cheekbone graze hers. She would have thought that a handful of visits in the past nine months would have made her forget just how much she wants him, but instead its probably just made it worse. Its so bloody _Sherlockian_.

“After the bottle of wine that she put away? I doubt it. She could sleep through a train wreck and not notice it. What’s he like, her husband? From the inflections in her voice I’d say he’s a bit of a bastard but without meeting him its hard to be specific.”

“How did you get in?” Molly smoothes her hair, wishes he’d caught her in something other than pyjamas and an old t-shirt.

“What are her children like? Be good to know since they’ll probably want to spend time with Amelia, since I assume that Mycroft will help her get sole custody and bring them over here.” Sherlock looks at the cot, next to Molly’s bed. “It’s a good name. Classic, elegant.”

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock’s eyes are still on the cot, on his daughter. _Has he seen her? Does he want to hold her? What does he think of her, now that she’s out in the world and not something inside my stomach that he listens to when he thinks I’m asleep?_ “I’ll be coming back to London soon. My work … its almost done.”

“Did you get him? Moriarty, I mean?”

Sherlock’s hands close into fists. “Not yet. But I’m getting closer.” He looks at her, sharp eyes in the dark. “You look well.”

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock swallows; Molly can see the movement, the bobbing. He looks at her, those pale eyes. “I thought, about what we talked about, the last time I was here.”

“We talked about a lot of things, Sherlock.” Molly’s not letting him off the hook that easily. “What exactly have you been thinking about?”

Sherlock looks back at the cot. “Will you go back to Bart’s? The other pathologists, they aren’t as good as you. And they won’t work with me. When I’m back in London I’ll be raised from the dead, exonerated, all of that unimportant stuff. But I’ll be working again and I’ll need access to the morgue.”

“Plenty of other morgues in the city, Sherlock.” “Be serious.” He rolls his eyes. “As if I’d let any of them sully my mind with their inane ramblings. God, listening to them all is so depressing.”

Molly smiles. _How nice of you to think about my career in terms of your own_. “At some point, yes.” Probably sooner, rather than later. As much as she loves Amelia, she loves her lab as well, and she misses weighing people’s brains almost as much as she misses earning her own money.

“Good.” Sherlock smiles, briefly. “You aren’t suited for a life of stay-at-home motherhood, Molly.”

“And who else would give you unprecedented access to the morgue?”

Sherlock’s smile widens, but there’s sadness there, too. “That isn’t exactly what I meant. Studies have shown that women who take time off to have children … their careers never recover. And you wouldn’t want that, I think.” He looks at her with those sharp blue eyes and Molly’s heart lurches. “Neither would I. Not many women get to be where you are in this field. Not many women have your brain. It would be … a shame, if that went to waste.”

“Looking after children isn’t a waste, Sherlock.” Molly moves towards Amelia and kisses her head. “Raising the child you made isn’t a waste.”

“I know. That isn’t what I meant.” Sherlock sighs, steeples his hands together. “I told you that I wasn’t very good at this.”

“Do you want to hold her?” _Your daughter, Sherlock, do you want to hold your daughter?_

“Amelia?” Sherlock looks like he’d sooner jump off of Bart’s without the airbag there to break his fall. “She’s sleeping.”

“And she’ll still be sleeping if you pick her up.” Molly gives him a small smile, one that widens when she sees Sherlock’s eyes linger on the cot. “Its alright, to want to pick her up. She’s half you, remember?”

“I see it.” Sherlock stands up, moves to the white wooden cot. “In the hair, the jaw. She’s all you, though. Her eyes and mouth and smile. I didn’t smile as a child.”

“I’m sure you did.” His eyes flicker to her and she sees something flash in the blue orbs. “You’ve spoken to my mother. You know about Mary Mountford. What reason would a child have to smile about, with that for a background?”

Molly reaches into the cot and picks up their daughter, offers her to Sherlock like she’s a gift, which, she supposes, she is. “Amelia will never go somewhere like that, Sherlock. She’ll never be unhappy, I promise.”

She pushes the baby towards him and Sherlock takes her like she’s a bomb, waiting to go off. It’s the first time she’s ever seen him awkward, holding his days-old daughter. He’s used to holding a mobile or a laptop, a gun or a riding crop or even that stupid bloody hat. He’s not used to holding a baby; she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him carry a cat that wasn’t dead ( _that_ had been interesting, explaining to Mike Stamford why Sherlock was carrying a dead alley cat through Bart’s). But Amelia doesn’t wake up, not even when he holds her under the arms, his own arms straight and rigid. _He was right_ , Molly thinks with a sad smile. _He really is no good at this. But then, I’m no expert either._

“Hello, Amelia.” Sherlock says in a voice she’s never heard him use before. “I’m your father. Your mum says its alright for me to hold you, but since she’s looking at me now like she might kill me if I drop you, its probably best if I put you back in your cot where you belong. She does know the best way to cover up a murder, after all.”

Molly’s got her mouth open to tell him what to do; _hold her close, pressed against you. She likes skin on skin contact, the warmth and the smell. She likes hearing heartbeats. Its good for them, to have a lot of contact with people who love them_. But she keeps her mouth shut. _He held her and talked to her. He talked to me. That’s enough for now, isn’t it?_

They sit at the kitchen table that Lestrade and Anderson and Donovan and all the others chipped in to buy. It’s a beautiful thing, big and made from heavy wood, although Lestrade and John almost murdered each other trying to build it. Donovan told them they were stupid and had the whole thing assembled in less than forty minutes. Mike Stamford bought the eight matching chairs; they have lovely cushions on them, little ones with a tie and a paisley pattern. Sherlock eats a sandwich and the last of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits and slurps tea out of a Bart’s mug; Molly has a tub of cookie dough ice cream and a spoon and doesn’t plan on moving until she’s tunnelled all the cookie pieces out of it. Sherlock made her a cup of tea but all she can see is the half-empty wine bottle on the counter, a ring of red next to the glass. God, what she wouldn’t give for a glass of wine right about now.

The overhead light doesn’t have a shade and she’s sure that they both look ghastly in the hard, unforgiving light. Sherlock looks tired and … _comfortable_ , Molly thinks as she presses the spoon to her mouth and chews on the cookie dough piece. _He looks comfortable_. The thought makes her inordinately pleased.

“There’s a spare room.” She says, quite without thinking. “Amelia gets me up during the night, but the spare room’s nice. If you don’t turn on the light.”

“I’m sure your sister would just love to roll over in the night and see me next to her.”

“The sofa’s comfy.”

“Yes.” Sherlock doesn’t eat the crusts, just pushes them around his plate. “I remember. What did you put on Amelia’s birth certificate?”

“You mean who her father is?” When he nods Molly says, “Nothing. I left it blank.”

“So she’s Amelia Hooper?”

“Amelia Georgina Watson Hooper.”

Something flashes in Sherlock’s eyes. “Watson? That’s a bit obvious.”

“Only if you’re looking for it.” Molly eats some more ice cream and slurps her tea. “And I couldn’t really use Holmes, could I? That would have been even more obvious. And John held my hand during the labour, Sherlock. He built half the baby furniture in this house.” She presses her lips together. “He knows.”

“About which part?”

“About all of it. Don’t give me that look, he worked it out on his own. He’s really quite clever, you know.”

“Of course I know. I worked with him for two years. Of course I realised that he had above average intelligence, not that that is saying anything. Most people walk around on this planet a hair’s breath away from disaster and they don’t even know it.”

Molly stares at him, unblinking. “Does it bother you, her having my name?”

Sherlock looks insulted; Molly thinks he would have preferred that she slapped him. “Do you take me for a philistine, or an idiot?”

“Most men care if their child bears their name, Sherlock.”

“I’m not most men.”

“I can’t argue with that.” Molly looks down at the tub of ice cream, the little rivets in the frozen cream and sugar. _This tub was full this morning_. She puts the tub down and pushes it away, a little disgusted with herself. _Tomorrow, I’m going back to the gym, I don’t care what anyone says. Amelia is not having a fat mother_.

Sherlock takes up the mantle and her spoon and shovels a huge piece of ice cream into his mouth, washing it down with tea. “You left the best part.”

“No-one likes the vanilla part of cookie dough ice cream. The dough pieces are the only thing people buy the ice cream for.”

Sherlock watches her closely, the same way he would sometimes in the lab, if she made an observation that he didn’t find overwhelmingly stupid. “You look tired.”

Molly stares at him and wants to hit him, suddenly at a loss to explain why she let him near her for long enough to help her make a child. _For someone who’s so clever, you’re really rather stupid_. “I’ve just given birth. Of course I’m bloody tired!”

“You shouldn’t eat ice cream for dinner. Poor nutrition is bad for you and the baby.”

“You’re the one polishing off the rest of that ice cream. And don’t you start. Mycroft’s made noises about hiring a chef. A bloody chef!”

Sherlock finishes the ice cream and throws the tub in the bin. It lands neatly with barely a swish from the plastic liner. _Of course it does_. Molly could make that shot twenty times and still never get it right. _I hope Amelia gets your coordination_. Then they stand together in the dark hall while he puts on his coat and scarf and gloves, soft leather that creak as he slides his fingers into them.

“Are you going to move back to Baker Street when you come back to London?”

An orange street light comes through the front door’s bevelled, if bulletproof, glass panel and casts light onto Sherlock’s face. He runs his fingers through his hair, fluffing it up like he’s whipping up a meringue. He turns his coat collar up against his neck and stares at Molly so hard and something ripples through her, hot desire and deja vue and a feeling that they’ve done all this before, him leaving her, this time quite literally with a baby.

“I’m not a good roommate, Molly. John went out for hours and I didn’t notice he was gone.” His eyes move to the stairs, flicker upwards. “I use walls for target practice and I keep eyeballs in my fridge. I wouldn’t be a good roommate.”

“I’m not suggesting that you move in here. I’m just asking. And saying that if you wanted to see Amelia, the spare room’s always yours.”

Sherlock presses his lips together. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. _He’s trying_ , Molly thinks. _Trying his best with what he has, with the time he has and the words that come when he wants them to_.

He leans down and for one moment, Molly thinks that Sherlock is going to kiss her, push her backwards against the wall and kiss her like he has in the past. Instead, he presses his lips to her cheek, stubble grazing her cheek. _You, I just need you_ ; God, even the memory makes her tremble. _A fool_ , she thinks, _I’m a lovesick fool who’s been ruined for other men, and I don’t care. For all Sherlock’s talk about my brain, I’m the one who’s rather stupid_.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper.”

###

Amelia is three months old and discovering the wonders of putting anything and everything into her mouth, when Molly sees it on the news. At first she can scarce believe it, when she comes home from work (she lasted six weeks and then came back to work, even if her work clothes were a little tight and she fell asleep at her desk a few times. She really did miss cutting up people’s brains) and sees the news: Sherlock Holmes Not Dead.

“Can you believe it?” Sally’s drinking coffee and folding Amelia’s clothes while Amelia watches the television with rapt attention. “Sherlock Holmes isn’t dead!”

“Surprised the news picked him up, all the way down there.” Molly kicks off her shoes and picks up her daughter, pressing her face into her neck and nuzzling her. She’s got just enough time to get to her spin class if she hurries, but now she doesn’t know if her legs will work. _He’s not dead. The news has confirmed it. If he’s not dead then he’s coming back soon. Can you hear me, Amelia? Your daddy’s coming home_.

“Of course he did!” Sally’s lost more weight since she’s been here. She says its stress-related (her husband is putting up a fight regards child custody but Molly’s rather eerily sure he doesn’t stand a chance. How could he, against the mighty Mycroft Holmes?) but there’s certainly more spring in her step than usual. _Has she got a fancy-man, like she thought their mum had?_ Molly can’t be sure. “And now it turns out that he’s exonerated. Undercover, apparently. All a big ruse to bring down some crime syndicate. Of course, the government’s denying all knowledge. Typical. Didn’t you used to work with him?”

“Once upon a time.”

“What’s he like?” Sally’s transfixed by the television and for that Molly’s glad, because then she doesn’t seen how her cheeks flush. “I bet he’s a right bastard.”

“He had his moments.”

“Well you two must have been close; there was a time when John Watson was never out of this house.” Sally turns her head to Molly. “John’s not the dad, is he?”

“Don’t be so bloody silly!”

“Didn’t think so. You never liked men with moustaches and his is terrible. D’you think Mary will make him shave it off after they get married?”

“He’s got to propose first, Sal.”

Sally snorts. “No-one should get married these days. Doesn’t ever end happily. I bet Sherlock Holmes isn’t the marrying kind.”

“No.” Molly holds Amelia tight and wills herself not to cry. “No, he isn’t.”

“Still, I wouldn’t mind trying to get him up the altar. That hair, those cheekbones. If you told me that he was Amelia’s dad I wouldn’t be surprised. They’ve got similar bone structure, that big head of curly hair. Although he’s been dead for two years so that makes it a little hard.” Sally stops talking and turns to Molly, her eyes wide. “Moll. Moll?”

Molly’s face displays her panic. She’s never been able to hide anything from her sister. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Well if I worked it out I won’t be the only one!” Sally shrieks, her eyes bright. “I’m not that bloody clever!”

“On that we are most certainly in agreement.” Sherlock’s voice cuts through the tension in the room as he sweeps inside, his coat billowing like a thick, dark cloud. The leather gloves come off and are stuffed in his pocket; he offers his hand to Sally and stares at her like she’s a slide Molly has made up for him to examine. “I don’t believe that we have been introduced. You’re Molly’s sister. I’m Sherlock Holmes, Amelia’s father.”

 

TBC.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks, once again, for the words of encouragement for this fic. Can you believe we’re at 50k words?! This was only meant to be a one-shot!
> 
> Note: the violin piece at the end is inspired by Phuong Medley’s Green Pastures, in case anyone was wondering.

They sit in Molly’s kitchen like everything’s normal. Mary’s holding Amelia and kissing the top of her head, her engagement ring catching in the light. It looks new; when Molly asks how long its been since John popped the question, Mary looks at the back door and says, “About as long as the cab ride then count backwards about half an hour.”

“Oh shit. Did my sister have bad timing?” Sally pours two glasses of wine; _bugger it_ , Molly thinks, and tells Sally to get a third one out of the cupboard. _One single bottle of formula won’t make me the shittest mother in the world. And as Sherlock would say, this is a three-glass problem, isn’t it?_

Mary glances at her watch. “How long have they been out there now?”

“About half an hour.” Molly watches the wine glug into the glass. She can smell the sugar and the grapes, the bliss that’s going to come when the first drop hits her tongue. _Over a year without a drink. I must be bloody mad_. “I thought that if they were around Amelia they might be a bit quieter.”

John shouts so loud the window rattles and throws what had begun life as a garden chair; Mary winces but Molly waves it off with her hand. “It was broken anyway. What’s a little more broken when its only got three legs? For Gods’ sake, Sal, are you pouring this wine or bloody squeezing it out of the grapes yourself?”

“Sorry. And sobriety makes you narky.” Sally pushes the glass towards her. “You don’t want to let it sit and breathe for a bit?”

“Sally, its £5 wine from the bargain bin in the supermarket.” Molly grabs the glass and knocks the whole thing back like it’s a shot. She didn’t even taste it, just wanted it in her system so she’s pleasantly buzzed for when John and Sherlock come through the back door.

“Bloody hell, Moll.” Sal watches her with a bright respect in her eyes. “You’ll be on the floor in five minutes!”

“If it makes you feel better, I buy my wine based on the label.” Mary coos over Amelia and reaches for her glass. “Although the restaurant we were in had wine that ran to triple figures.”

Molly winces. It had been her idea – insistence, even – that she call John and Mary and invite them over so that John and Sherlock could talk and John could see that his best friend was, in fact, back from the dead. Sherlock thought that John would welcome him with open arms; Molly was convinced that if Amelia was around, John wouldn’t shout too loudly and he wouldn’t murder the father of the girl who shared his surname. John was just ingenious and had dragged Sherlock into the back garden.

“I’m really sorry, Mary.”

“Oh hush. Only wine and a plate of food. And I think Sherlock coming back the night we got engaged has probably got John more excited than me saying yes.”

There’s the sound of flesh on flesh, probably a fist in a face, and the three women wince.

“Amelia, your Daddy.” Molly says as she pours herself another glass, fully intending to sip and savour it this time. “Is probably getting a well-deserved beating.”

“I just can’t believe you managed to keep it a secret.” Mary sips her wine and stares – with not a little envy – around Molly’s kitchen, which is run-down but takes up two-thirds of the ground floor, once the wall has been knocked through. The last owners were kind enough to start that and not finish it, meaning that Molly has to. All she sees are the broken tiles and the food mixer from her old flat that doesn’t work and was packed by mistake, but the extra space is making her fingers itch for all the cookbooks packed away in boxes, somewhere. _Oh yes_ , she thinks as she sips her wine, _I’ll spend a lot of time here, once its finished. If its ever finished. If John murders Sherlock in the back garden, will Mycroft still let me stay?_ “Although looking at little madam here, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. And you are beautiful, aren’t you, Amelia? Yes you are.”

Amelia smiles and gurgles, reaches her hands up to touch Mary’s face, and Molly feels a rush of love to strong she couldn’t describe it even if she wanted to. The only love that could compare would be her love for her dad, and he isn’t here, and what’s the use of comparing the dead to the living, anyway?

“Say what you will about Sherlock, but he makes beautiful kids.” She says. “Well-behaved, too.”

“That’ll soon stop.” Sally’s found some crisps and some biscuits in the fridge, along with the remnants of a take-away and a pizza. “D’you think those two will want anything, or shall we just eat it?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” Mary sits down and manoeuvres Amelia into her high chair. “Lovely restaurant that John had picked, but the portions were bloody tiny!”

“Inversely proportional to the prices, I bet.” Sally’s opened the crisps and Molly can smell cheese and onion and salt and vinegar. “Why is it that men always think that taking girls to posh restaurants will impress them? I swear to God, I don’t want to be taken out to some nice restaurant where I have to get dressed up, I’d settle for him making me dinner when I got home from work two or three nights out of five. Doesn’t he realise that I work just as hard as he does and probably don’t want to have to cook when I get in?”

“John’s good in the kitchen, sort of.” Mary’s found some prawn cocktail crisps and is munching through them like there’s no tomorrow. “Is that chicken tikka in that dish?”

“Madras. Mycroft came by over the weekend to see Amelia and brought take-away from that place down the road.” Molly says. “John must be pretty good in more places than the kitchen if you’re marrying him, Mary.”

Mary’s eyes twinkle, and Molly’s happy for her. Its hard, being happy for someone else without pause or equivocation or wondering why your life isn’t as great as theirs, but there, in that moment, at the kitchen table covered in crisps and take-away, her tongue tasting like wine, Molly’s nothing but happy. And as she looks around her house, she mentally slaps herself, a little. What’s not great about her life, at the moment?

The door opens and John and Sherlock come inside, bringing a gust of cold air with them. John’s knuckles are split and Sherlock’s nursing a bloody nose and a split lip, but Molly can’t sense any tension that time and apologies won’t fix.

“Good talk then, yeah?” She says.

###

She patches Sherlock up in the bathroom. This one’s in worse shape than the one in her flat ever was, with a shower that barely works and a toilet that gurgles worse than Amelia. She can hear the others downstairs, fussing over Amelia and bickering over what food to order from the Indian place down the road. Molly opens her first aid kit and inspects Sherlock’s face, and her hands refuse to shake as she gets closer. _Talk about history repeating itself_.

“Did you and John get yourselves sorted out?”

Sherlock’s watching her and her movements with an ice pack on one eye. _Is he remembering too, the last time we were like this?_ “He punched me in the face, Molly.”

“You lied to him, Sherlock.” Molly dips her head and thinks about that conversation in that coffee shop, John’s quiet voice speaking all these truths that she couldn’t deny even if she wanted to.

“He’s your best friend and you lied to him for almost two years.”

“It had to be believable.” Sherlock glances towards the closed door, where voices can be heard downstairs. “He should have been pleased to see me. He thought I was dead and now I’m not. And I’ve taken down a criminal network almost single-handedly. At the very least I should get a thank-you.”

Molly shakes her head. _Oh Sherlock_.

“What?” Sherlock says when he sees her face. “You’ve got that look, like I’ve done something socially inappropriate.”

“You lied to your best friend for almost two years, Sherlock!” Molly wipes his jaw with disinfectant and more force than is really necessary. “You let him think you were dead and then you expect him to welcome you back with a clap on the back and a cup of tea. You-“ She stops herself, busies her hands and her mind with repairing him. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice is curious, but flat at the same time. “No, you were about to offer me some of your sterling insights into human nature. Go ahead, we’ve got a daughter together, don’t hold back.”

Molly glares at him. “That’s just the problem, Sherlock. That statement there is exactly your problem. For someone who prides himself on being so clever, you’re awfully bloody stupid.”

“That doesn’t make a word of sense.”

“You can’t apply sense to everything, Sherlock! There are some things in life that defy reason, and logic, and deduction, and what you did is one of them.”

“Bringing down Moriarty’s network was entirely logical. Protecting the people I care about, the people who matter. The only way for me to do that was to convince him that I was dead, that I’d played his game, that he’d won-“

“No-one won here, Sherlock!” Molly gestures wildly to the closed-door. “You didn’t see what it was like, while you were away. We broke! Lestrade got divorced-“

“Anyone with half a brain could have predicted that. I don’t seen how I can be blamed for his wife running off with the – what was it? Postman?”

“Bin man.”

“Bin man, that’s right. It wasn’t me who emptied her bins. Although perhaps filling her bins might be the more appropriate-”

“John and Mrs Hudson were walking around like the bloody walking wounded!” Molly snaps. “Actions have consequences, Sherlock! You think it was hard for you, well it was bloody hard for us too! You don’t get to just piss off for almost two years and come back and expect everything to be the same because it won’t be! People don’t work like that, we aren’t machines you can put in safe mode and expect us to power back up when you turn us on, no harm done.” Molly flings the disinfectant and cotton balls at him. “You can finish cleaning your own face, I’m going downstairs to see my daughter. Our daughter.”

On the way out of the bathroom, she turns to him, eyes wide and reproachful. “You told me how awful your childhood was, how awful it was, going to that school. And it does sound horrible. But you know what sounds infinitely worse? Not knowing how to truly care about the people around you. Not knowing how to tell the people who love you that you love them back. And no matter how clever Amelia is, how much she looks like you or learns like you or talks like you, she won’t ever be like that part of you, not if I have anything to say about it.”

She’s wiped away most of the tears by the time she gets downstairs and pauses on the bottom step. _In, out, in, out. Deep breaths_. The kitchen is bright and airy, and Molly can hear raucous laughter and Mary’s tipsy giggles. _At least they’re laughing_. She rubs her forehead. _God, Molly, you idiot, what were you thinking, dragging them over here like this?_

She braces herself before she goes inside. _Put on your armour_ , that’s what her dad used to say. They used to practice in the mirror, when Molly was in secondary school and the girls used to tease her and bully her, make her life a misery. _Put on your armour, so no-one can hurt you_ , God, its like the wind’s been knocked out of her when she thinks about those days, before her dad was in a hospital bed with no hair, when he was vibrant and alive and just her dad, the man who could make everything better, and now he’s gone and she’s here, in a house full of people and has never felt more alone. _Put on your armour_.

Molly had been rubbish at it then and was worse now. _Should I really have to wear her armour in front of my friends? Its not like they aren’t going to be able to guess what happened up there, anyway? Why can’t I just go in there and start crying about how I feel like I’m drowning and all I want is my dad?_

 _No_. She squares her shoulders, like she does when thinking about a hard day in the morgue. _You’re not that person. Your dad wouldn’t want you to be that person_. So she puts a smile on her face and walks towards the kitchen, towards the light and the laughter and the people who care about her.

In the kitchen, Amelia’s in her high chair; John’s trying to feed her cold chicken madras despite Mary’s protests, while Sally places an order to the takeaway that sounds like it would feed the whole street. Her sister spies her tears, still wet on her cheeks as she comes into the kitchen and picks up Amelia, holding her little body as close as she can get. Amelia leans back and looks at Molly with those bright, brown eyes, and Molly can see the questions there. _She knows_ , Molly thinks. _She’s clever, and babies know. They pick up on moods and emotions; what is my mood telling her now? That her mummy hates her daddy? That all her mummy wants is her own daddy? How can I be a good parent when all I want is to sit and cry about my dead parent?_

But she nuzzles her daughter close, strokes her hair. I _ts alright, darling. You’ll never be like that, we’ll never be like that. I’m going to show you what love is, what friendship is, and you’ll never have the problems that your daddy has._

A hand on her arm; Molly’s afraid to turn around in case its Sherlock, but when she opens her eyes its her sister with two wine glasses, both half-full. “How much did you hear?”

“Not much.” Sally stokes Molly’s hair and all Molly wants is her dad. _Please, dad, please just be here, just for five minutes. I’m in a room full of people who want to help me and I feel so alone_. “How was it?”

“Not good.” Molly exhales a long, slow breath and takes a sip of wine. _Three months in and you’re regulating your stress with wine. And you aren’t even married to Sherlock_. She puts the glass down. “Quite a lot not good, actually.”

Sally takes a long, slow sip of wine. She puts her glass next to Molly’s and looks her sister square in the face. “He might be tall and clever and almost inhumanly good-looking, but if he makes you cry again, I’ll kill him.”

“I’ll help bury his body.” John chimes in from the sofa. He’s got a glass of something amber in his hand (Mycroft’s Cognac, Mary supposes, something he likes to drink when he turns up to see how she’s getting on) and he’s just drunk enough to admit he’s eavesdropping. “The great Sherlock bloody Holmes isn’t on my list of favourite people at the moment, either.”

“I mean it, Molly.” Sally says as she helps Molly find plates and knives and forks at the other end of the kitchen, just out of earshot. “No man is worth this amount of tears. Plenty of good men out there who wouldn’t mind helping you raise Amelia. Men who wouldn’t piss off at a moment’s notice. Men who would jump at the chance to get a ring on your finger.”

“I thought you told me not to get married because it would end in disaster.”

Sally shrugs and pours some more wine. “It probably will. But here’s to hoping, yeah?”

 _Oh yes_ , Molly thinks as she watches her daughter and feels her tears dry on her cheeks. _Here’s to hoping_.

###

St Bart’s has a crèche that accepts Amelia with open arms and a staff discount. Mycroft is utterly horrified that Molly’s bringing her to work, but Molly won’t hear anything about it.

“Sally’s going back to work, Mycroft. And I don’t want a stranger taking care of my daughter. And she needs to learn from an early age that her mum works and doesn’t just live in a house owned by her uncle.”

“And are you on friendly terms with the personnel in this crèche?” Mycroft’s sat in her office chair in the morgue as she makes a Y-incision, far enough away that he can talk but doesn’t have to watch. Sherlock always said that Mycroft was squeamish. “Do you know their first names, the names of their parents?”

“Mycroft.” _This is the last thing I need. Another know-it-all Holmes brother_.

“How about the names of their first pets, or where they went to school?” Mycroft’s warming to his topic now; Sherlock had mentioned once that he and his brother used to play Deduction when they were younger, well neither Molly nor her daughter are a game, thank you very much. “These questions are suitable for electronic password nonsense, why not a friend?”

“Stop.”

“What about your Christmas card list? Is there a list for family and close friends and another for crèche workers at St Bart’s that I’ve never even heard mentioned by name until today?”

“Do shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock walks into the morgue with a flourish, like he’s a game show host coming out from behind the curtain. “If Molly thinks they are suitable minders for Amelia, we should defer to her judgement.”He stops short when he sees Molly, even though they’ve seen each other many times in the months since that night at her house, just after he came back. “Molly.”

Molly glances up from the incision she’s making. His hair’s longer, curlier. He looks tired, has he been sleeping, eating? She hates that she still looks for it, even now. “Sherlock.”

“Amelia needs stimulation.” Mycroft has brochures in his hand and he puts them on the desk, perfectly aligned with the corner. “I’ve taken the liberty of looking at some other childcare arrangements that will be suitable for her; just because the pair of you are burying your heads in the sand when it comes to her development, doesn’t mean that I will.”

“We don’t know how she’s going to develop, Mycroft.” Sherlock moves to the microscope and begins his work. “She’s happy, she’s healthy; why not just quit while we’re ahead?”

“And what about when she isn’t happy?” Mycroft flicks some imaginary lint off his trousers and stares at Molly and his brother. “What about when she’s five years old with the intellectual capabilities of a ten year-old? What about when she’s eleven and she’s outstripped every secondary school in London? Do you think she’ll be happy in a normal school, with years-old textbooks that she could read in her sleep?”

“I didn’t do so badly at a normal school.” Molly snaps. “Couldn’t all go to private school like some people.”

“I meant no offense, Molly.” Mycroft says, and for once, Molly actually believes him. Its taken her a little while, but she’s finally come around to the idea that Mycroft does actually have hers, and certainly Amelia’s, best interests at heart. “I’m merely pointing out that your daughter is going to have different needs, academically, and most likely, socially. My brother isn’t exactly a model example of the virtues of private education, but for someone with specific needs and a specific skill set, it can provide challenges and resources that a normal school, with normal children, can’t.”

 _Normal_. The way he uses the word, like a blade, stabs Molly right in the gut. _Normal. Boring, Stupid. Ordinary_.

“But she’s still going to need friends, family, people who love her.” Molly cracks open her patient’s ribs with such force that Mycroft and Sherlock both jump at the sound. “The world won’t change to accommodate her, Mycroft, it doesn’t matter how wonderful or special or gifted we think she is.” She swallows hard and focuses on her work. _The work_ , Sherlock used to say, _always the work. That’s all that matters_. At least opening a man’s chest cavity is giving her focus as she dissects her months-old daughter as cleanly as she dissects everything else. “She’s going to have to change to accommodate the world. She’s going to have to learn how to live in this world and the only way to do that is to expose her to it, not cloister her away.”

“Molly’s right.” Sherlock adjusts the lens on his microscope.

“Hello.” John comes into the morgue, Amelia in his arms. _He’s so good with her_ , Molly thinks as he puts her in the high chair next to Molly’s desk and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. There’s real love there, that John feels for her daughter, the little girl he helped birth and held when she was days old. _He’ll make such a good dad_.

John’s affection and deft touch isn’t lost on Sherlock either; the world’s only consulting detective tracks John with his eyes the whole time. John smiles, but there isn’t much humour there. _Still bitter, about what’s happened. Still angry, even three months later_.

“Oh. I’ve intruded on some kind of family confab, haven’t I? Wouldn’t want to do that, one of you might fake your own death to get out of actually having a normal conversation where you have to talk about normal feelings. No offense, Molly.”

“Thank you, John, for proving that passive aggressiveness does not, indeed, have a shelf life.” Sherlock adds drily.

“Thanks for getting her.” Molly can’t move because her hands are wrapped around her patient’s stomach and intestines, which she dumps on the scales with a flourish, but she gives John a warm smile. “I can’t believe I lost track of time.”

“I cannot believe that these crèche workers of yours gave my niece to a perfect stranger.”

“Oh don’t be daft.” John chuckles. “The girls who work there are lovely. I’ve known them for as long as I’ve been coming here. I remember some of them from when I did my medical training. They know I’d never hurt Amelia.”

“Well.” Mycroft rises and reaches for his umbrella. “That makes me feel so much better.” He’s gone in the blink of an eye, the tea that Molly made him untouched. John dumps it in the sink and offers to make a fresh cup for everyone. The door swings shut and leaves all the tension behind.

“Anything interesting in today’s corpse?” Sherlock says after a few moments.

Molly glances up to see that he’s moved Amelia’s high chair across the room, next to his microscope and slides. She’s close but not touching, far away enough to just be there but close enough for him to ruffle her hair, if he wants to.

“Nothing really.” Molly stares at the cadaver on the table, a fifty-year old man who liked too much beer and too many burgers. More and more common, since she started working here. “Heart attack, most likely. Sad, for it to happen to someone so young, but nothing out of the ordinary. He’s my third one this month.”

“Is that why you’re five minutes behind schedule on his autopsy?”

“In case you didn’t notice, I was a little busy being nagged by your brother.” Molly forces the contents of the intestines out and into the sink. Its like watching a butcher make sausages and it always makes her feel a little bit sick. “But thank you, for backing me up.”

“You’re her mother. You’re responsible, capable. You know what’s best.” He catches her eye.

“Is that meant to be an apology?”

“An apology for what?”

“You’ve barely said two words to me since that night at the house.”

“I’ve been at your house every weekend. And at least once a week in-between.”

“Seeing Amelia.”

He’s been more hands-on that Molly ever would have dreamed; in fact, the first time he showed up she was convinced that it was a dream until he sat down at her kitchen table with Amelia in his arms and deduced everything about her day from the blouse she was wearing, and then she wished that he was a dream, so she could wake up and have him be on the other side of the city in Baker Street.

Sherlock sighs. “It is not an apology, Molly. It is the logical conclusion. Nothing of the past six to fifteen months indicate that you have been anything other than a fine mother.”

“Glad to know I’ve got your stamp of approval.”

“You cannot let Mycroft have a hand in Amelia’s education.” Sherlock says, after a few minutes and she can see that he’s absolutely, deadly serious. “You can’t. He’d pack Amelia off to boarding school and then Cambridge or Harvard or some dull, unimportant place like that where she won’t learn anything of what’s important.”

Only Sherlock could think that two of the worlds’ finest academic institutions are dull and unimportant. Molly still remembers her rejection letter from Cambridge, the awful interview and the terribly polite ‘thank you but we’d rather accept a shire horse than you’ letter that came a few weeks later. She’s often wondered if Sherlock knew about that. Certainly Mycroft did. How would their lives have been if they’d passed each other in the dining hall or library instead of at a lab, twenty years old instead of thirty-five? She tries to imagine Sherlock as a young man at Cambridge but its still a blur. _He didn’t belong there any more than I did. He belongs in the city, not a university town. He belongs in the morgue, in the lab_.

 _He belongs with me_.

She presses her lips together until they disappear. _Stop it. Stop it now_. Instead she just says, “You went to Cambridge.”

“So I know what I’m talking about. It was dull and uninteresting then and its no doubt the same now. Why else do you think I finished so quickly? She needs life, Molly.” When Molly looks up, Sherlock’s watching their daughter, watching her little fingers curl around his bigger, elegant ones. “I learned nothing until I was out in London, walking the streets, working.”

Molly’s got nothing to say to that, so she busies herself with the rest of the autopsy until she’s weighing the brain and making notes on his chart. This is her favourite part of the autopsy, if such a thing exists. Its not something she’d ever admit to anyone, but there’s something about holding a person’s brain in her hands that makes her insides a little funny. People talk about the heart, but it’s the brain that is the centre of human existence, the cluster of grey matter inside the skull. Heartache might hurt in the chest, but it’s the brain that puts those feelings there, the brain that spins out treacherous little stories and dreams and hopes and wishes. How can the heart compete against the dream of possibility?

She clears her throat. “Mum called the other day. She wants to know if I’m going to have Amelia christened.”

“Waste of time.” Sherlock doesn’t glance up from his microscope but he’s got Amelia in his lap, now, one arm around her stomach. “Religion is overrated, comfort for fools in the place of other, more exciting stimulants, and Mycroft’s money and influence will get her into any school you want, regardless of denomination.” He turns, narrows his eyes at her. “You went to a religiously affiliated school, didn’t you? All girls, dedicated uniform monitors, skirts below the knee that were no doubt rolled up as soon as you left the gates; makes sense.”

Molly’s cheeks flush. “I did not roll my skirt up.”

“Yes, I’m sure you were quite the perfect schoolgirl until you got to university and discovered the wonders of life. Do you think Amelia should have her head submerged in water for several seconds while other people pray to a God they aren’t sure exists about our daughter’s immortal soul?”

“There will be a party afterwards.” Molly bites her lip. God, her mum had kept her on the phone for two hours last night, banging on about it. “And cake. I was going to ask the bakery by St Joseph’s church to do one.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “The one that does the mint chocolate chip icing?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“St. Joseph’s is the same church where your father was buried.” Sherlock casts an eye to Amelia. “Sentiment?”

Molly sinks onto her chair. “Dad always wanted me to have children. I mean, he always wanted me to have them, if that was what I wanted. He saw Rick’s kids, and Sally’s.”

“You don’t go to church.” “Not to pray. I don’t go inside the church, just the graveyard. I visit my dad there every few weeks.”

“Yes, a simple headstone, nice location, peaceful, if you think-“ Sherlock stops, presses his lips together and brushes a single dark curl out of Amelia’s face. She gurgles up and him and a bit of spit drips down onto his hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “If it matters to you, then you should consider it.”

“She’s your daughter too.”

“Not according to the birth certificate.”

“I can change it, if it matters that much to you.”

“It doesn’t matter to me.” Sherlock produces a tissue from his pocket and wipes Amelia’s mouth, catches the rest of her dribble, before wiping his own hand. “Truly, Molly, its inconsequential, just like this christening. If it is something that you really wish to do, then do it.”

Molly nods, turns her attention back to the brain. She excises some samples for the lab and labels them up, scrawls her initials in the corner. “Will you come?”

“Even less of my area than romance, I’m afraid. Mycroft will send a gift, though. My parents, too.”

“They’d be invited, Sherlock.”

 _That’s_ got his attention. “My parents and your mother in the same room?”

Molly smiles weakly. “And Sally, Rick and Janet and their kids. Mary and John. Mrs. Hudson. Mike Stamford. Lestrade.”

“Why not just invite the whole of London?”

“Hardly. My christening had two hundred people at it. This one will have less than twenty.” Molly bites her lip. “I was going to ask John to be her godfather, if that’s acceptable to you. Sally’s probably the wisest choice for godmother.”

“Not for Amelia. What’s your sister going to teach her? How to drink wine and mess up a marriage?”

Molly wants to chastise him for the remark about Sally, but there’s no way she can. Sherlock’s been in her house too many times for her to lie, and he’d probably just know, anyway. Instead she says, with a small smile, “Careful, Sherlock. That sounds almost like sentiment to me.”

###

 _He won’t come_ , Molly thinks as she wakes up to Amelia crying. Its her first night in her own room, the first night in six months that they’ve been separated. It was just a test, to see how things went. Amelia slept better than Molly did; at three am she was there, in the doorway of the room that she and Mary had painted, listening to her daughter sleep. _He won’t. He said he wouldn’t, and he won’t. Not his area_ , he said. _So don’t glance at the door every time it opens, expecting it to be him, because it won’t be_.

She swings her legs out of bed and sits, just for a few minutes, to catch her breath. She’s started back at the gym and every movement is a struggle. Her body’s changed, saggy in places it didn’t used to be, bigger in others. Her doctor’s told her that everything will go back to normal, but Molly just feels loose and uncomfortable, like she’s walking around in someone else’s skin. But she’s back in her pre-pregnancy clothes and her face has retained just enough plumpness to make her look five years younger (sleepless nights not withstanding), so she can’t complain too much. But the complaining takes her mind off the nerves. She’s nervous, about today. Her family and Sherlock’s family and their closest friends at a christening: what could possibly go wrong?

Molly doesn’t want to think about that. Instead, she gets out of bed and pads along the floor, out of her bedroom and along the hall, careful to avoid the toys and games and other baby paraphernalia that litter the house. Mycroft had suggested only once that she get a housekeeper; Mrs Hudson had, he said, offered to do it for free, but Molly wouldn’t hear of it. Her bathroom floor’s just as dirty as it ever has been, but she can’t bring herself to care. Her life has altered out of all recognition in the past fifteen months, is she asking so much to keep her dirty bathroom floor?

Amelia’s room is at the end of the hallway, a beautiful space with sunny yellow walls that gets warm throughout the day. Amelia’s quiet by the time Molly gets to the doorway and to her complete surprise, the little girl is standing up in her bed, her arms gripping the sides of the cot with chubby little fingers. She smiles when she sees Molly, claps her hands and gurgles, “Mamamamama.”

“Yes.” Molly starts to cry. God, why didn’t anyone tell her that love could feel like this? She understands now, what her dad used to mean when he said he’d kill anyone who ever hurt her. “Yes, love, I’m your mum.”

“Mu … muuuuum. Mumumu-“ Amelia can’t quite get her tongue around it, but she giggles when Molly picks her up and twirls her around the room, dancing them both to a song that only Molly can hear. “Mamamama.”

“Yes, love.” Molly holds her close and hugs her as hard as she dares. “Mama.”

Molly takes a bath with Amelia on the floor. She can sit up on her own now, and as she saw this morning, stand, too. _That’s earlier, than I expected_ , Molly thinks as she squirts some of Amelia’s baby shampoo in her hair and works it into a heavy lather. She keeps one eye on Amelia as she rinses, although some shampoo goes in her eye and she yelps; by the time she’s managed to wash it out, Amelia is standing again, her hands gripping the sides of the bath. She’s got a little toy, a dragon with pink and purple scales that was a gift from Mary, and she throws it at Molly when Molly doesn’t respond to her gurgle. It hits Molly right in the nose and she yelps, tastes metal in her mouth.

“Shit.” Molly drags herself out of the bath, hair full of shampoo and inspects the damage. _Please don’t be broken, please don’t be broken_.

There’s blood but no break. _Thank God. The last thing I need is to show up to my daughter’s Christening with a broken nose. That would just be the icing on the cake_.

 _The cake. Bugger_. Molly can’t remember if she gave the cake shop her address. Mycroft had promised that Anthea would arrange all of the catering, if Molly told him what she wanted. Molly had refused out of pride and had only begrudgingly allowed Anthea to take delivery of the cake and was now beginning to sorely regret it.

The bathroom sink is too small to wash her hair and Amelia has found the metal cord attached to the plug; the bathwater has gone before Molly can stop her and the shower isn’t working. _Great_. She takes Amelia under her arm and the two of them go downstairs, Molly in a cotton dressing gown, her shampoo-heavy hair dripping soap and water everywhere.

“Molly!” A voice in the hallway as Molly’s in the kitchen, washing her hair; _who in the world is that going to be?_ “Molly, why aren’t you answering your phone?”

Molly looks up to find her sister in the kitchen, Amelia on her hip. “Little busy here, Sal. What’s the matter?”

“Do you have anything I can wear today? I can’t find anything and I dropped bleach on my only good dress.”

Molly sighs. _Couldn’t Sally have asked me this last week?_ “Anything but the blue dress hanging up outside my wardrobe.”

“What do you think, Amelia?” Sally kisses her niece’s head. “Has your mummy picked out something to capture your daddy’s heart?”

“Stop it, Sal.”

Amelia giggles and says, “Mamamama.” Sally’s smile could eclipse the sun. “She’s talking”

“She’s saying mama.”

“Tip of the iceberg, Moll. Soon she’ll be reciting Shakespeare. Have you got her a new dress?”

“Don’t you start. Between mum and Sherlock’s mum and Mycroft I’ve got more dresses than I know what to do with. There’s a nice green one in her room, she can wear that.”

“Green.” Sally wrinkles her nose. “Not really her colour. What about that burgundy one?”

“The green one is fine.” Molly wraps her hair in a towel, wonders if its too early to start drinking. _You sound just like Sally. But you aren’t breastfeeding anymore, so you can, if you wanted. Probably the only way to get through today is if you’re half-pissed_.

Amelia wrinkles her nose and starts to cry when Molly gets the baby bath out, and struggles and squirms throughout the whole thing. In the end its Molly’s who’s wetter by the end of it, but she can’t bring herself to care. She’s just attempting to get some breakfast when the doorbell goes. _Who the bloody hell is this going to be?_

“Hello, love.” Her mum’s wearing an outfit that must have cost more than Molly’s monthly wage and totters across the threshold in stilettos. “You’re not dressed!”

Molly lets herself be pecked on the cheek even though she’s sure that there’s porridge there. “Got my hands full, Mum.”

“Yes, well, I’m here now, so you just run along and get ready and let me spend some time with my granddaughter. I can’t believe you waited this long to have her christened. Honestly, Molly, what were you thinking?”

Molly rolls her eyes at her mother’s back. “I’ll be upstairs.”

###

She tries on three dresses, two blouses and a skirt. Nothing matches. Her hair is greasy from the shampoo and doesn’t look right no matter what she does with it unless its in a ponytail. Molly can almost hear her mother now: _you can’t wear a ponytail to Amelia’s christening. A netball match, yes, but not a christening._

 _What would you do if I told you to piss off and mind your own fucking business for once_ , Molly wonders?

Another knock at the door. Molly snags a ladder in her last pair of black tights and wants to scream. _You’ve got to be kidding me_.

She freezes when she hears the voice downstairs. _He said he wasn’t coming. He said he wasn’t coming._

Feet on the stairs, quick and economical, then a knock on her door. “Molly?”

“Just a minute.” Molly’s in a bra and knickers and her stomach isn’t what it used to be before Amelia, and she fumbles with her dressing gown before she opens the door to Sherlock.

“You’re not dressed.” He says. “And your hair needs a wash. And what’s happened to your nose?”

“If you say another word-“ He takes her arm and gently pushes her towards the bathroom.

“Wash your hair.”

“I don’t have the time-“

“You’re her mother. You have the time.” He gestures with his hand. “Go.”

When Molly comes back ten minutes later, Sherlock has laid a dress out on the bed, a white silk tea dress with a dark red rose pattern. “I’d forgot I had this.”

“Found it in the back of your wardrobe.” Sherlock’s sat on the rocking chair with Amelia standing between his legs, playing with his fingers. She’s wearing the burgundy dress; it matches Sherlock’s shirt almost exactly, as do the roses on her dress. He’s wearing a black suit, one she hasn’t seen before. Even sitting down she can tell its perfectly tailored. His hair has been trimmed and he looks sharp and refreshed and impossibly handsome. A part of her wants to stab him.

“It’s a summer dress.” Molly looks outside, where the morning frost still hasn’t gone.

“You’ve got a coat, haven’t you?”

Molly dresses with as much speed as she can, prays fervently as she zips herself in. It clothes without a hitch and she breathes a sigh of relief, smoothes down the silky fabric and slips her feet into pumps, low but not flat. Her hair gets a quick blast with the hairdryer, head upside down; got to get volume where she can. She tames it with a comb, applies some makeup and steps back into the bedroom.

Sherlock looks up when she comes in; Molly wants to twirl but knows it would be extremely childish. “Do I look okay?” She says, when the seconds tick by and not only has Sherlock not said anything, but he hasn’t stopped looking at her.

“You should wear that dress more often, Molly.”

“I’m sure the corpses would like it.” Molly lets her gaze slip to the bed where her heavy, dark red coat is laid out on the bed. “Thanks. For the advice, I mean. And for coming. I know it isn’t your thing, but-“

Sherlock takes her by the shoulders, his hand warm and strong. The other has Amelia on his hip; she’s curling his hair around her fingers. “You’re quite welcome, Molly.”

“Are your mum and dad here?”

“Not yet. Traffic. They said they’d meet us at the church.” Molly looks at father and daughter together, and feels warmth that makes her want to cry. “Thank you. For being there. Here, I mean. I know its not your area, none of it is.”

“Well you did remind me that you weren’t an expert either.” Sherlock smiles a little, his eyes moving all over her face. “And it will mean a lot to Amelia, when she’s older.”

“Yes.” Molly smiles and thinks about the pictures she’ll be able to show her daughter, when she’s older, pictures of her mum and her dad, looking like a happy family. “Yes, it will.”

###

St. Joseph’s looks like every church from every quintessentially English film ever made; a tall spire that stretches into the sky, a slate grey roof, sloping gravestones to one side, stained glass in the windows. Molly’s eyes dart to her dad’s grave as soon as she gets out of the car, she can’t help it. She pauses as she walks up the path, her eyes on the cluster of headstones. _If you can see me, Dad, I just want you to know that I’m happier, than I was when we last spoke_.

“Hey.” Sally touches her arm, her eyes bright.

“You alright?”

“Fine.” Molly wipes her eyes, embarrassed that all it took was thinking of her dad to make her cry. “Really, I’m fine.”

Sally kisses her cheek, taller than her in her skyscraper heels that she bought at Heathrow because she was bored. “Daddy wouldn’t want you to be sad. Not today. Not any day.”

Molly nods, a tight movement because she’s afraid that anything else will set her off. “I know.”She squeezes her eyes shut as she crosses the threshold into the church, smells candle wax and leather. _I haven’t been in here since Dad’s funeral_.

They have to walk alongside the rows of pews before they reach the aisle, the same aisle that her mum walked up, when she married her dad, the same aisle Molly walked up, her dad’s coffin heavy on her shoulder. When she was learning how to drive, her dad would spend hours in the car with her, the two of them scuttling through the roads around their house, sometimes going further afield, eating iced lollies and listening to the radio. _One more drive_ , Molly had thought as she had carried her dad up that aisle, her mum’s crying like a drill on her nerve. _One more drive together, dad_.

Her breath hitches as she reaches the aisle and even though Amelia’s in her arms and the church is full because theirs isn’t the only christening, because all she can see is that big coffin, her shoulder still hurting from being the first pallbearer. She can see the huge flower arrangement on the top that tickled her chin, the smell that made her feel sick. She can feel the sadness like a wave, clutching at her throat, clawing harder and harder-

“Molly.” Sherlock’s hand is at her elbow, warm and close. “Are you alright?”

Molly swallows and closes her eyes, lets the grief wash through her. She grips Amelia so tightly she prays she doesn’t leave a bruise. “I haven’t been in here since I buried my dad.”

“We can go.” Sherlock looks at the people Molly invited to the christening, Lestrade with hair as grey as his suit, a happy smile on his face because he was so touched to be invited, Mrs Hudson in her bed suit with a little pillbox hat that’s years old, her mum and sister and brother behind her, John and Mary staring at her, half-ready to spring out of their seats to help if need be, even Mycroft looking over his parents’ shoulders with something like worry on his face. “Seriously, Molly.” Sherlock's eyes are looking for John. _His rock_ , Molly thinks. _His rock on stormy waters. My dad was my rock and now he’s lying beneath the ground in that heavy wooden box, and_ -

“I’m alright.” She breathes a deep breath and nods, makes her look him in the eye. “Really, Sherlock.” She smiles. “Can’t ask everyone to leave now they’re here. And who would eat all that cake?”

“I’m sure you’d manage it.” Sherlock smiles, loosens his grip a little. “Let’s get this pointless display of sentimentality over with, shall we?”

The service is short; Amelia behaves herself, for the most part, although her eyes wander around the church, sucking it all in. _Does she have a mind palace, like Sherlock?_ Molly wonders what kind of a room they’re in, in Amelia’s mind palace. Wherever they are, she hopes its somewhere happy, where they twirl all the time to music that makes them both smile. Amelia expresses a rather robust interest in Molly’s favourite beaded clutch, opens it up and throws the contents all over the floor. Molly’s never seen a tampon roll down the aisle of St. Joseph’s before today; John traps it with his foot and returns it to her, his cheeks puce. Sherlock giggles against Amelia’s hair and absently smoothes down a curl; when Molly looks closely, she sees that it’s the same loose curl that she always wants to smooth for him, a lone one that hangs over his forehead. _Where does Amelia live, in his mind palace? Where do I live? I hope we’re together, although I don’t know if we are_. Looking at them together, Molly knows that no-one could doubt that Sherlock cares for Amelia, but her? Certainly there’s affection, friendship – she _did_ help him fake his own death, after all – but love? She isn’t sure.

Molly closes her eyes and wonders what her mind palace would look like, somewhere with a garden where she could play with Amelia, a herb garden. In her mind palace her dad sits in his chair by the window and talks about books with Sherlock, or sits in the garden with his eyes closed against the sun. Everyone’s happy, in her mind palace. She stores emotions there, rather than thoughts, memories rather than facts. That’s probably why Sherlock’s the world’s only consulting detective and she isn’t.

John and Sally do their parts well; John’s hands shake a little when he holds Amelia and his eyes are full of tears, not sure whether he should look at the little girl whose fate he now has some responsibility for, or Mary, the woman he wants to have a family with. Molly squeezes his hand and kisses his cheek and prays that if there is a God and Sherlock is wrong, that he sees fit to give Mary and John as many children as they want. Sally looks sad and smells like too much perfume; Molly doesn’t know if she’s mourning their dad, her marriage, or both, but she slips away as they file out of the church, and not towards their dad’s gravestone. Instead, its Molly who makes that walk, her heels making soft noises against the still-frozen ground. _I wish you could have been here, Dad_.

“It gives you comfort, to come here?” Molly turns around and Sherlock’s there, her coat in his hands. He slips it around her shoulders.

“Where’s Amelia?”

“Your mother.”

Molly winces; her mum isn’t maternal unless she wants to be. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Sherlock stares at the gravestone. “You miss your dad?”

“Every day.” Molly sniffs. “I used to come here every weekend, but it just got so hard. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have loved him, as much as I did, if we’d spent less time together, if he hadn’t been everything to me. Then it might have hurt less when he died. But I couldn’t not love him the way I did. He was my dad, and he’s dead, and nothing will ever make things right again.”

“We are what we are. If you had loved your dad any way other than how you did, you wouldn’t be you.” Sherlock gives her a brief smile. He’s trying so hard and for that Molly loves him. “And as I’ve said, you have no guile, no pretence.”

“And we all know the world’s only consulting detective is never wrong.” Molly turns her head, to Sherlock’s family and her mum, awkwardly chatting as they touch Amelia’s wild hair, to Mycroft and Lestrade and John and Mary and Mrs Hudson fussing over them all while Stamford’s red, round face laughs and smiles. “She’s going to be alright, isn’t she?” Molly mumbles. “She really is going to be alright.”

Sherlock follows her gaze. “Of course she is.”

###

They have a small party at Molly’s house, afterwards; Sherlock starts deducing the state of Rick and Janet’s marriage until John drags him into the back garden to throw some already-broken furniture. Lestrade and Sally hit it off; Molly can feel her sister undressing the inspector with her eyes. _Great. Just what I need_. Cora and Mark and Lucy sit on the couch and make small talk. Mycroft checks his phone and tries not to look as out of his depth as he feels. Molly just wants to sit and eat the whole cake and drink a bottle of white wine.

“So, that Sherlock bloke, he’s Amelia’s dad.” Janet takes the seat next to her, cuts a generous slice of cake. She’s wearing a bright green dress that’s a little too tight on her boobs and has cut her hair into a blunt bob that looks like a blonde helmet fell on her head from a great height. “He’s a bit of a live wire, I must say. Told me I was having an affair from the state of my shoes, if you can believe that.”

Against her will, Molly glances at her sister-in-law’s shoes. Plain black stilettoes with a red sole. Fancy, high-end, certainly not something she and Rick could afford, probably a gift, not from a rich friend, not the sort of present a female friend would buy. Parents perhaps, but they’re dead; she’s wearing her mum’s heirloom ring on her finger. Most likely a male friend, but male friends don’t buy boutique shoes for women unless they’re more than friends-

 _Stop. Stop it now. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know, not today. That’s why John took Sherlock outside_.

“He’s just very observant.” Janet leaves her then, not that Molly minds. Her mind is like the porridge that she made this morning, thick and beige and gloopy. What she’d like is a hot bath, or some time in the morgue to work, an autopsy where she could focus on her hands and the movement of the blade, the careful Y-incision, weighing the organs one by one, looking at the brain under the light….

“Molly.” John and Sherlock are standing in the kitchen, John with a bemused look on his face. “What are you doing?”

Molly looks down at the banana bearing a miniature Y-incision. “I’m practicing my stitching. It relaxes me.”

John shakes his head, incredulous. “Him with his violin, you with your stitches. It’s a good job I’m Amelia’s godfather or there’d be no hope for her.” He leaves them in the kitchen and Sherlock comes closer. He’s not wearing a coat and his cheeks are red, but he smells like frost and cold wind and nature.

“I saw her shoes.” Molly’s pulls her needle through the banana skin. The first aid kit’s open next to her; she didn’t even remember finding it. “Janet’s. She’s having an affair, isn’t she?”

“Older man, eye for fashion.” Sherlock’s watching her hands. “Six months or more, I’d say. Nice stitches.”

“I just needed something to occupy my time.” Molly blows out a long, deep breath. She’ll be angry at her sister-in-law later, when she’s processed it. “Been a long day.”

He leaves her then, alone in the kitchen with her cake and banana for company. A few minutes pass and she hears the first notes, long and dreamy, slow and melodic. At first she thinks it’s the cd player, something that Mycroft brought with him, but when she follows the sound upstairs, up and up and along the hallway, into Amelia’s room, its Sherlock, standing in the window, playing his violin. Amelia’s quiet, rapt, her attention riveted on the man with whom she shares so much. She smiles when she sees Molly, her eyes bright and wide. She holds out her arms and waits for Molly to pick her up, and Molly obliges, her arms around her daughter’s little body, swaying them both to Sherlock’s music, twirling them in time with the sad melody that makes her cry.

“Dada.” Amelia gurgles, her mouth full of Molly’s hair. “Dada.”

 _Yes_ , Molly thinks as she slow-dances and twirls them in time to Sherlock’s music, the three of them alone. Y _es, darling. That’s your dad_.

 

TBC.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: I’ve been away from my computer for a few days, so here is an extra-long chapter to compensate. Hope you enjoy! Thank you SO MUCH for my reviews/follows/kudos. It means so much. You are the best.
> 
> A/N 2: One of my FFN guest reviewers noted that autopsies are messy and Molly probably shouldn’t bring Amelia in there. I can only apologise for this, put it down to me not knowing anything about morgues and autopsies and knowing even less about raising a child!
> 
> A/N 3: James Darcy of the Body Farm and the Manchester Piccadilly Hilton are both complete figment of my imagination. Any coincidence to real persons and places are purely coincidental and no offense or infringement of any kind is intended.

The frost that gripped the ground when they christened Amelia hangs around; it is winter, after all. Molly buys a Christmas tree that’s too big and tries to remember what she was doing a year ago. Amelia is seven, nearly eight months; this time last year she was pregnant and terrified, a brave face for the world but so scared inside. Has she changed much, in the intervening twelve months? She looks different (the hairdresser’s in her new neighbourhood seemed determined to give her some kind of highlighted, puffed blow-dry that made her look like all the other women who live on her road; Molly had promptly renegotiated the precise meaning of the words _trim and blow dry_ and felt Sherlock’s hands in her hair the whole time) and feels different (she can’t be a child now that she’s a mother, can she?), but does that make her different?

Certainly she’d like to feel something different; there had been an advert at Bart’s for the annual pathology conference in Florida, pictures of glossy resorts next to the latest morgue tables had never looked more tempting. Its been years since she went to an international conference, probably not since the year she went to the conference in Toronto and ate beans on toast for tea every night for six months afterwards. She’s been to local conferences, but its not the same as the hum and buzz and chaos of an international conference, and the simple thought of it is enough to put a smile on her face all through a particularly pungent autopsy, a body found in a sceptic tank at the back of an old abattoir. Sherlock had ranked it a seven on his scale; Lestrade had turned green but Molly had just breathed through her nose and thought about Florida in January.

“Are you going?” Sherlock had asked her as she soaked her equipment in sterile solution and scrubbed her arms and hands until they were red.

“Going where?”

“The pathology conference in Florida.” He’s watching her; she can feel his eyes on her.

“You should. Your papers are always well-received.”

 _How does he know this?_ Molly finds that, as with most things about Sherlock, like the yellow smiley face riddled with bullet holes, the skull, the riding crop, its best that you don’t ask. “The deadline for papers passed months ago.” Molly dries her hands and slathers them in moisturiser, heavy-duty stuff she bought online. Without it she’d have hands like an old woman. She sniffs herself and smells death and bleach. _God, Molly, no wonder you can’t get a date for New Year_. “Can’t really justify going just to watch.”

Sherlock stares at her, unmoving. He’s started doing it more and more since Amelia was born, staring at them both like they’re a puzzle to be worked out, something his mind just cannot explain. _Its not like becoming a parent hasn’t blown my mind, too_ , Molly wants to scream. It had been Stamford who pointed out that bringing a child into a messy autopsy suite was, as well as being unprofessional, probably rather psychologically damaging; neither she nor Sherlock had thought of it. _God, I’m rubbish at this_.

“If you think that finding someone to be with Amelia is an issue, it won’t be.”

Molly stares at Sherlock, the soft-spoken words hanging between them. He hasn’t moved this whole time; _its unnerving_ , Molly thinks, _to have him be so incredibly still, only his mouth moving_. She narrows her eyes, works the moisturiser into her cuticles. “Have you even asked your parents if they want to watch Amelia? Mum would throw a fit if I asked them and not her. And its not like either Sally or Rick are in a position to take her, or John and Mary, and as for Mycroft …” Her voice trails off when she sees the expression on his face. _Shit. Shit. That was a bit not good, wasn’t it?_ “You were offering.” She wants to slap herself. “You were offering to look after Amelia if I go away.”

“Text me when you’ve got the lab results from the sceptic tank corpse.” Sherlock’s out the door before she can say anymore.

###

Molly picks Amelia up from St. Bart’s crèche and they take the bus home together. It’s a struggle because Molly had no idea that babies required so much stuff until she actually had one, and she stares at every man who comes too close to her and it feels like an elephant’s sitting on her chest the whole time, but the bus and the Tube were good enough for her when she was growing up so they’ll be good enough for her daughter, thank you very much.

Mary is waiting for her when she gets home; Molly doesn’t want to know how she got a key (Sherlock, probably), but she can’t complain when Mary is taking Amelia from her arms and making Molly a cup of tea all at the same time.

“Thought you’d be back ages ago.”

Molly blows on her tea and wishes they had some biscuits in the house, but her New Years’ resolution is no more biscuits or cakes. Its killing her. She should invent sugar patches and make a fortune. “Got the bus.”

“Brave at this time of year. I saw a fist fight break out on Oxford Street today over a handbag in a shop window. Can you imagine?”

“If Mycroft had his way Amelia would travel around in the back of a bulletproof car. If it was up to Sherlock, I’d remortgage the house for cab fares.” Molly watches Amelia and Mary and hopes that Mary can have as many children as she wants. “Amelia’s going to get around London the way most Londoners do.”

“Too right. Although.” Mary shifts Amelia into her high chair and brushes her hair out of her face. “I hate to ask, but its Mrs Hudson’s who’s bearing the worst of it … have you and Sherlock had a fight?”

“Dada.” Amelia says with all the authority of an eight month-old. “Sherlock. Dada.”

“Daddy, Amelia.” Molly corrects. “Dad or Daddy. We’ve talked about this, remember?” She smiles at Mary. “She likes to call Sherlock Dada.”

“What do you call him?”

“Nothing I can repeat now that little madam here is picking up words faster than my sister picks up men. Can you believe she’s on another date already?”

“What happened to Greg?” Molly winces. “Only my sister could use her niece’s christening to pick up a man. Not that Lestrade seems to mind. Last I heard he’s dating a nurse from Bart’s.”

“Anyone you know?”

Molly shakes her head and grins. “Some gorgeous twenty-something who’s making him forget all about his ex-wife.”

“Alright.” Mary pats the table with her hand and discards her tea in favour of a glass of wine. “Stop dodging the question. Have you and Sherlock had a fight?”

“No.”

“John says that he’s been playing the violin nonstop. And when he isn’t doing that he’s making another smiley face in the wall.”

Molly rolls her eyes. “He’s a child. A child trapped in the body of a near forty-year old man. I already have one child, why would I want another?”

“Child.” Amelia nods in agreement. Molly wants to giggle. “Child.”

They make dinner and Molly tells Mary about her and Sherlock’s conversation in the morgue. Amelia’s happily ensconced in front of the television; Molly might have let her watch an autopsy but she isn’t going to badmouth her father in front of their daughter. She knows that much.

“I mean, what did he think I was going to think?” She says as she furiously chops an onion and adds it to a pan. “Its not like Baker Street is childproof and did he really think that my first thought would be that he would take care of her?”

“He is her father.” Mary’s on a second glass of wine; Molly’s other New Year’s resolution is that she isn’t going to drink during the week. That’s easier than the biscuits but as she looks at the liquid in Mary’s glass, she thinks that it would be nice to have one herself. She makes a cup of decaf coffee and sips slowly. “And you’ve said yourself that he’s been much better than you thought. When John told me that Sherlock had a child, my first thought was ‘poor thing’ but seeing him with Amelia, with you … I’ve been really surprised.”

“Me?” Molly almost cuts herself with the kitchen knife.

“Molly.” Mary smiles a soft, sad smile. “Anyone can see how fond he is of you.”

“Fond.” Molly feels like she’s been punched in the stomach. Her other New Years’ resolution is to categorically get over Sherlock Holmes. _He’s the father of my child, but he isn’t my husband. He isn’t even my boyfriend. You know that’s how its always going to be. Do you want to be forty and alone?_ “Well that’s a word for it. Better than indifferent, I suppose.”

“You know he hasn’t been indifferent to you for a long time. We’ve all seen it. He doesn’t say anything but Sherlock isn’t like that, is he? Why tell you he cares for you when he can offer to look after your daughter while you go to an international conference to further your career? A bit clumsy, I’ll give him that, but he offered all the same, and you know that Sherlock never does anything he doesn’t mean.”

“Sherlock wants me to go so that I’ll be guaranteed the promotion at work.” Molly adds garlic and sauce to the pan and her stomach rumbles. “Then he thinks he’ll be able to come and go at the morgue as he pleases.”

“He does come and go at the morgue as he pleases.” Mary smiles. “Do you really think that Stamford doesn’t know? Its not like Sherlock’s ever subtle when he’s there.” She touches Molly’s hand and smiles. “Will you think about it?”

“About Sherlock taking care of Amelia for a week?” Molly wants to laugh. “He doesn’t even take care of himself.”

“You said that you wanted him to be involved with Amelia. Now’s your chance.”

###

Mary leaves just before Molly finishes dinner. Amelia’s probably too young for adult food, but Molly cools a little bit of pasta sauce in her daughter’s plastic dish and lets Amelia try it. The little girl looks at her with those huge eyes, as quizzical and inquisitive as Sherlock’s, before spitting the lot onto Molly’s hand. “You’d better not be a fussy eater like your dad.”After dinner, Molly looks at flights from Heathrow to Miami while Amelia watches the news with rapt attention. _At least you don’t find it boring_. She winces when she sees the prices. _You can’t afford the flight, never mind anything else_. She’s about to get ready for bed when the doorbell goes.

“Amelia hasn’t had her bath.” Sherlock crosses the threshold and holds his arms out to his daughter.

“You don’t usually come round on Tuesdays.”

“John and Mary are planning their wedding in the flat.”

“You’re the best man. Don’t you have to be involved in the planning?”

“Sorry, I should be more specific.” Sherlock takes Amelia upstairs, Molly on his heels. “John uses that term as a euphemism for sex. The noise is giving me a headache.”

“You’re the one who plays the violin for hours at a time. How do you think John feels about that?”

“Have you been reading to her every night?”

“Not _War and Peace_ , but we do alright. It was _The Hairy Caterpillar_ last night.”

“ _War and Peace_ is dull anyway. You should try Einstein if you get bored. Always used to send me to sleep.”

“I wonder why.” Molly follows him towards the bathroom, but doesn’t go in, just leans against the doorframe to watch. _Masochist_ , a little part of her whispers, but she can’t help it. _Is it so wrong, to want to watch the man I love bathe our daughter? And God, she really does love him. She should stop, and Lord knows she’s tried often enough, but she can’t_.

Sherlock runs the bath, Amelia pressed against his hip. He keeps his hand there, watching the temperature, adds just the right amount of baby bath and carefully holds his daughter when its time for her to get in the water. She watches him intently the whole time, brown eyes gazing into blue and seeing the same … inquisitiveness, the same desire to ask.

 _Novelty_ , Molly thinks as she sips her wine (it isn’t New Year just yet). _He’s here three, four times a week to bathe her and spend time with her. He’s a novelty. Or is she looking and seeing a kindred spirit?_ The school brochures that Mycroft has left sit by her bed, hidden underneath a journal. Molly reads them, when she’s feeling even more of a masochist than she does most of the time. _You asked for this_ , she thinks when she hides them under the pillow and lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. _You saw the test – all six of them – turn pink, and you decided to keep it, keep her. No-one forced you to keep her, you decided it all on your own. You told Sherlock that you didn’t want anything from him, but he’s here anyway, spending time with your daughter. He loves Amelia; no-one said anything about him loving you, too_.

“You’re here a lot more than I thought you’d be.” She says later, as Sherlock sits in the rocking chair with Amelia and she stands at the window, looking outside. Its snowing again.

“Helps me think.”

“I thought you had your violin for that.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, simply rocks the chair with his foot, Molly can hear the wood creak. Its dark out, and if Molly turned around she’d see Sherlock’s face half-bathed in the darkness, but she doesn’t dare. Strangely, and despite everything, she feels more exposed around him now than she ever has.

“Not that I’m complaining.” Molly sips her wine and wonders how the glass got so full; probably the same time that her tongue got so loose. “I’m just surprised.” She presses her lips together. “Today, in the hospital … you were offering to take Amelia for the week that I would be away, if I went on that conference.”

“Is there a question hiding somewhere in there? Speak your mind, Molly; no-one here will stop you.”

Molly turns around to look at him. “Why did you do that?”

“Studies show that women whose careers suffer when they have children often grow to resent the child, or what the child represents. Or they grow to hate the father.” He meets her gaze. “I do not wish for that to happen. I will solve the case that John and I are working on, then I can have Amelia while you go to Florida. Mycroft has already made the reservation. I tried to tell him that you wouldn’t want to fly first class but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

Molly stares at him hard, so hard that her hands and feet and everything about her shakes. More than anything she wants to kiss him, to press her mouth to his and mould her body around his, invite him into her bed and watch him loosen that ironclad self-control enough for him to whisper her name against his skin. She wants to shudder underneath his deft fingertips, even though she knows he’ll be gone before the sun is in the sky.

 _That’s no life for you, no life for you and definitely no life for Amelia. Sherlock Holmes is never going to love you and even if he does, it won’t ever be in the way that you want_. Molly’s felt unrequited love before but she’s sure that this is worse, this loving someone and them loving you enough but not enough, the same but not the same. She wants a love that will warm her when she’s cold and be her foundation when she feels like she’s crumbling. Sherlock can barely explain what love is, never mind how to express it.

She touches his shoulder, as she walks past him towards her bedroom. He’s warm beneath his shirt (when did he take off his coat and jacket?) and she allows herself this, a brief, seconds-long linger against him. _Its not New Years just yet_. “There’s another one at the end of the month in Manchester. Only the weekend. I’m going to that one.”

“Manchester is not Florida.”

“No. But at least its not London, either.” Sherlock looks out of the window. “You should go to Florida. It will be more challenging, more productive, even as an attendee.”

“And you should be a scientist or a concert violinist, or – I don’t know – someone who does incredibly clever things. But you’re a consulting detective and I’m a pathologist who’s going to Manchester.” Molly squeezes his shoulder. “There’s food downstairs. Eat something, will you? You don’t want Amelia growing up to think that its alright to skip meals and sleep. Girls today already have enough to worry about. You can stay here, if you want. Snow’s really coming down now and the spare bedroom’s free.”

She slips out of bed sometime around four am, pads to the bathroom half-asleep. Sherlock’s still in the rocking chair, their daughter cradled against his chest.

###

Christmas comes and goes; Molly fields endless requests from her and Sherlock’s family about her plans. Her mum is indignant that she isn’t cooking Christmas dinner for everyone. “Its our first Christmas as a family in years!” She protests. “You can’t just sit in that house, just the two of you and eat beans on toast!”

It doesn’t feel like Christmas to Molly. It hasn’t felt like Christmas since her dad died. The idea of everyone sitting around the table and him not being there, not carving the turkey, is enough to make her cry in the middle of writing her last few Christmas cards.

Mark and Cora call and ask when they’re to expect her on Boxing Day. Mycroft will send a car, apparently. “We’ve bought a new bed for Amelia.” Mark says and Molly can almost see him smile. “Bit big for her yet but she’ll be able to use it when she gets older.”

Molly’s wrapping presents in front of the tree; she had to take six inches off the top to get it in the living room, but its her tree and it looks beautiful in front of the living room window and Amelia crawls around on her mat and is absolutely captivated by the lights and the baubles and suddenly the hundred pounds that Mary spent on the tree, and the hours spent dragging the thing through London and furiously hacking off branches in her garden with a rusty axe like some kind of woman possessed, was all worth it.

“Its very kind of you to offer, Mark, but Amelia and I are having Christmas together this year.”

“What – just the two of you?”

“Just the two of us.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“Watch some telly, eat some food. I went to Waitrose and splashed out, and bought myself some DVDs. I’ll be fine, Mark.”

“But Christmas is all about family.” Mark says. “You can’t be without your family at Christmas.”

Molly’s grip tightens on the phone; for a moment she thinks that she’s going to lose it. “I won’t be alone. I have Amelia. And I’m going to visit my dad in the morning.”

Christmas Eve comes and Molly loads her and Amelia into a taxi and asks the driver to take them to Baker Street. Sherlock, it would seem, is having a Christmas party. Molly watches the city whip by, snow peppering the ground. The last time she did this, three years ago, she was a ball of nerves, excited and flushed from the cold, smoothing down a crease in her dress, knuckles white on the bag of presents. Now she’s wearing her nicest skinny jeans (back into her pre-pregnancy clothes, thank God) and a red jumper with knitted reindeer all over it, a nice pair of red ankle boots that match her lipstick. Amelia’s in a glittery party dress with a bow and like Molly she watches the city go by with rapt interest.

“One day, you’ll walk this city with your Dad and he’ll show you all the best places.” Molly kisses her daughter’s head and feels love so strong that she starts to cry. “Maybe the three of us will go.”

The taxi’s delayed by snow but they get there with good time; the cab driver helps her out of the taxi and holds Amelia’s car-seat as Molly gets the presents and her bag out of the back seat. He even walks her to the front door and holds her hand up the steps. He’s a nice man, reminds her a little bit of her dad. Molly gives him an extra-large tip and knocks on the front door. The cab idles until John opens the door and gives her a kiss. He smells like cinnamon and tangerines and looks the happiest she’s ever seen him.

Mrs Hudson has done the place really nice, Molly thinks as she walks upstairs, her boots clomping on the stairs. She’s not used to wearing heels and its difficult to walk. There’s tinsel and baubles everywhere, a large tree that stretches against the stairs. The air smells like pine cones and the woods; Molly vows that when the spring comes, she’s going to take Amelia out of the city and show her that there’s life in England outside of London. When she was little her family took her into Derbyshire and she stood on a great rock and felt the wind in her hair, felt true freedom for the first time. Her brother backpacked across America once and said he felt that way has he stood on the Great Plains in the middle of a storm (her dad always joked that Molly was the smart one in the family); maybe she and Amelia will do that too, one day. She’s started making a list, of things she wants them to do, as they get older. Its not long but hopefully it will be, one day.

She goes upstairs to find that John has already put Amelia on the kitchen table; the little girl’s legs are going like mad, she’s so desperate to get out of her car seat and explore this strange new world where everything is new. Her fingers inch towards the unlit Bunsen burner but Sherlock’s there first, swooping in to take it before she can. He takes her out of the car seat and holds her close; when Molly looks closer she sees that his eyes are shut, his mouth pressed together like he does when he’s working a case and needs everyone to be quiet. _It must be very exhausting_ , Molly thinks, _to have such a busy mind_. But then, she does prefer the company of the dead, so who is she to talk?

“Got a case this afternoon.” John hands her a glass of eggnog and a bowl of snacks. “An eight, apparently. Not had one of those for a while.”

“He said that holding her helps him think.” Molly palms a handful of peanuts and downs some wine. “And Mrs Hudson’s wall has never looked better.”

John gives her a warm smile. “Its really good to see you, Molly. You look well. Mary said you were glowing.”

Molly smoothes down her hair and goes the same colour as her jumper. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Rubbish. Being a mum suits you.”

“Being back at work suits me.” Molly sighs. “I’m not very good at this mum stuff. I feel like I should feel guilty to be back at work but I don’t.”

“The morgue wasn’t the same without you. And Amelia’s healthy and happy and has two parents who care about her.” John shrugs. “Things could be a lot worse.”

 _Yes_ , Molly says as she stares at her daughter. _Yes, you’re right_.

The night ticks on and Amelia settles, soon fast asleep. Molly puts her in Sherlock’s bedroom and pauses, just for a moment, sits down on the large, plain bed and touches the sheets. They’re Egyptian cotton, high thread count; they’re so soft, like the curls on his head. _How many times has she imagined being here, in this bed?_ She remembers slipping into her favourite underwear, the night of the last Baker Street party, little black pants and a bra that fit her just right. She’d imagined how Sherlock’s hands would feel when he touched her skin, the way he’d look up at her. When she did eventually take him into her bed she was wearing boy shorts with cupcakes on them and a grey bra missing the elastic, and he’d barely noticed. Funny, how things turn out.

Others drift in and out of the party; Lestrade with his new girlfriend, Mike Stamford after a long day, on his way home to see his family. Mrs Hudson nods off in John’s chair, John and Mary kiss and cuddle under the mistletoe like they’re teenagers. They’re getting married soon; neither of them want to wait. Molly looks at Mary’s engagement ring and knows that New Year can’t come soon enough.

“Snow’s really coming down now.” Sherlock watches through the window as the clock strikes one am on Christmas morning. “Take the bed, if you want. I won’t sleep tonight and if I do it will be on the couch.”

“No, its fine.” Molly’s gathering Amelia’s things, stuffing them into her bag. “You’re going out to your parents’ place first thing, wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Its no imposition.” Sherlock’s plucking the strings on his violin, gentle noises coming from the instrument. “I left something for Amelia, in your bag.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Sherlock turns around and catches her eye. “I’m her father, Molly. I’m not so dysfunctional that I wouldn’t buy her a gift at Christmas.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting?” Mycroft’s voice wafts up the staircase before Molly can say anything, and then he appears in the doorway smelling like snow and London in the wintertime. “I saw the lights on and didn’t think that my brother would be asleep. Although it looks like I have missed my niece.”

“Bit too much excitement for one day.”

“I’m going your way; let me give you a ride back. I only stopped off to wish everyone Merry Christmas …” Mycroft looks around the flat, almost confused. “Where _is_ everyone?”

“John and Mary are having sex in his bedroom.” Sherlock says flatly. “Mrs Hudson’s asleep in John’s chair.”

“The others have gone.” Molly’s looking for her coat. And her gloves, where did she put her gloves? “I was just about to call a cab myself, actually.”

“Nonsense.” Mycroft produces something from inside his coat; a small bottle with a gold top. _Brandy_ , Molly thinks. _Or Cognac. What exactly is the difference between them?_ “Your daughter’s first Christmas deserves a drink, doesn’t it?”

There aren’t enough clean glasses and no-one can be bothered to wash them (would Sherlock even know how?) so they drink brandy out of teacups. Molly can smell washing-up liquid and bleach but not very much brandy. Sherlock stands at the window and watches the snow; Mycroft sits on the couch next to Amelia and gently touches her foot, as if he’s checking that she’s really there. _He would have made a good dad_ , Molly thinks as she reaches for one of Mrs Hudson’s mince pies (can in no way be classed as either a biscuit or a cake therefore not in breach of any resolutions). _He would have been stiff and formal and really awkward, but he would have loved his child and wanted the best for them. That’s all anyone can hope for, isn’t it?_

“There’s an extra space, if you wish to join us tomorrow.” Mycroft swirls the brandy in his tea. “Mummy and Daddy would be delighted to have you, since Sherlock has since announced that he too will be staying in London.”

“I have a case, Mycroft. The dead don’t care about Christmas.”

“But our parents do.” Mycroft stares at his younger brother and Molly feels very, very uncomfortable. “It was bad enough with you being gone last year when they knew that you were out of the country. Now you’re two hours away and would rather play with the dead than your family.”

Sherlock turns his head, just a little. The street lights catch his profile. _He looks tired_. “I thought you said that caring was a disadvantage, Mycroft.”

“It is, brother dear. But appearances must be kept.” Mycroft stands up and smiles at Molly. “May I escort you home, Dr Hooper?”

“That’s okay.” Molly sips her brandy and stares at the fire. “I think I’ll stay here a bit longer. Thanks though. And Merry Christmas.”

Mycroft leaves behind presents that are perfectly wrapped; Molly kisses Amelia’s head before scooting closer to the fire to watch the flames. “When I was a little girl, Dad and I would roast marshmallows on our fire.” She smiles and for the first time, let’s the hurt come without fighting it. Isn’t that one of the stages of grief, acceptance? She’s never accepted that her dad was gone, really. Maybe now, she should. “We’d spend hours doing it. I haven’t eaten a marshmallow since he died.” She turns her head to look at Sherlock, his back, stiff and hidden beneath his shirt, red like Molly’s jumper. “You and your brother both like to say things that you don’t mean, don’t you?”

Sherlock turns around, gives her his full attention. “I never lie and neither does my brother.”

“Yes you do. You both like to pretend that you don’t feel anything, but I don’t think that’s true.”

“Don’t try to deduce me, Molly. You wouldn’t like what you find.”

“So its alright for you to deduce other people but we can’t do the same to you?” Molly stares at the fire and wishes she had a poker to move the coals around. “You stood over there, right where you’re standing now, and deduced me. You said the most horrible things, but they were all true.”

“No, they weren’t.”

“Yes they were.” Molly swallows. “Its my New Years’ resolution, to stop loving you. Taken me three years and a baby to work it out, but I’ve decided that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Emotions aren’t like light switches, Molly.” Sherlock’s voice is soft, but not unkind. “They can’t be turned on or off just like that.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Molly sighs. The fire’s so beautiful and she’s a little bit drunk from the wine; _why else would she be saying these things?_ She knows that she’s going to regret this tomorrow but she can’t help it so she carries on talking. “You’d like being able to turn off your emotions. For the longest time, we all thought you didn’t have any. You fooled us well enough. But then why did you become a detective?”

“Donovan thinks I’m a sociopath with murderous tendencies.”

“Donovan’s been sleeping with Anderson for the past five years; what does she know? You could have become anything you wanted; instead you live here in this tiny flat, surrounded by all these people who walk around like the walking wounded, and you care about them. You’ve got this little collection of people who don’t quite fit, like you - Mrs Hudson with her husband, John and Mary and Lestrade and me. You and your collection of misfits. And you help people.”

“Its not about the people, Molly.” Sherlock shakes his head. “Never confuse me with a hero. Or an altruist. Its all about-“

“The work, yes, I know. You’ve said it often enough. So why did you jump off Bart’s roof? Because of Moriarty’s network, or because he had a gun on everyone who mattered to you? If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have done all that.” Molly stands up and reaches for her coat. “I just wish you cared about me enough that Moriarty had thought to put a sniper on me. But then, if he had, we probably wouldn’t be where we are now, would we? Its alright, though.” She stands up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, so still that it looks like its been carved from marble. “I didn’t expect it then, I don’t now. I told you that I didn’t and I meant it. It just took a little while, for my head to catch up. You can still come and see Amelia, whenever you like. Please don’t stop seeing her; I couldn’t bear it if you did. Good night, Sherlock Holmes, and Merry Christmas.”

Sherlock’s expression is completely still; Molly doesn’t think that even the great Consulting Detective himself could deduce anything from his chalk-white face. Instead he just says, “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper,” and helps her and their child into a taxi.

###

Molly wakes up the next morning with a heavy tongue and wishes that she could say that it was because of the wine and the brandy, but her head’s clear. She looks in the bathroom mirror, examining her face for blemishes, spots, marks, rashes, an extra head, anything sign of illness or episode that might account for last night’s words to Sherlock.

 _You said that it was your New Years’ resolution_ , she thinks as she checks on Amelia and wishes her daughter a happy Christmas. _You said that was what you were going to do; too late to take it back now. And its for the best, anyway. No more pining. Its time to start living, now. How would it look to Amelia, if she grew up knowing that her mum was still in love with her dad and he didn’t love her back? What would that say about her? That she’s a romantic, or a fool?_

She goes downstairs and makes some breakfast; Waitrose all-butter croissants that melt on her tongue when she eats them. Molly curls up on the sofa with a cup of tea and watches the news, makes sure that Amelia’s fed. Its snowing outside and only just light, the world beyond her window still and quiet. People going to see their families, or to church. She’d thought about going to church to visit her dad but decides to put it off until later.

She finds it later, when she’s getting ready to visit her dad, stuffing things into Amelia’s bag. Its small and flat and square, wrapped up in red paper with a bow, so similar to the gift she had wrapped for him those years ago. Its neat, neater than she thought he would be (a part of her feels guilty when she wonders if he had it gift-wrapped at the shop), with a small card: Merry Christmas, Amelia - Sherlock Holmes. _How very like him_.

She looks at her daughter, who’s wearing a red padded snowsuit and matching hat, mittens on strings. She’s managed to work off one of her boots and has thrown it with such force that its lodged in the Christmas tree. She glares at Molly and starts to cry. _Oh no. Please, no crying at Christmas_.

Molly opens the parcel. “What the blazes is this?”

It’s a CD, Molly can see that much, plain and blank save for AMELIA written across the top. The plastic case has a clear cover so she opens it and slips it into the CD player. There’s a pause, a few minutes, then the violin starts, and the notes spin out a picture of a little girl with black hair and brown eyes and a gurgling smile. The notes do deep and wide, rich and melancholy and full of love. _All the things he feels but can’t, won’t, say_.

Molly’s cheeks are wet and she’s crying, but she can’t hear herself over the music. She wipes her eyes and more than anything, wants to sit down and put her head in her hands and sob until there’s nothing left, but she can’t do that because her daughter is there and looking at her mother like she’s left her senses at Baker Street. Maybe I did. So Molly just picks up her daughter and twirls them around, dancing in the middle of the living room to a song made for a daughter by her father.

###

Molly visits her dad and eats a whole box of mince pies in his honour, just like they used to do at Christmas. She sits in the cemetery in about twenty layers, bounces Amelia on her lap and drinks hot coffee laced with brandy from a flask, tells her dad all about her New Years’ resolution. _Her dad would be proud_ , she thinks. _There’s no point wasting your time on someone who doesn’t love you_ , he would say. So Molly finishes her mince pies and drinks some more coffee until she can feel her tongue getting heavy again and stops. Dear God, she’s a terrible mother. Amelia doesn’t seem to mind, though; they can’t find a taxi so Molly walks them towards a bus station until a bright red sports car pulls to the side of the kerb and almost splatters them with dirty, wet slush.

“Molly!” Noelle gets out of the car in a red snowsuit that matches Amelia’s perfectly. She’s wearing ski goggles pushed onto her head. _Ski goggles, really?_ Molly giggles but puts a hand over her mouth. _I can’t be drunk on Christmas Day when I’m looking after my daughter_. “Molly, what are you doing all this way out here today?”

“Visiting my dad.” With that, Molly bursts into noisy, semi-drunken tears.

Noelle ushers her into the back seat, a squeeze since Molly doesn’t think this car was meant to accommodate more than one passenger, but Noelle insists. “Absolutely terrible form if we didn’t give you a lift home, isn’t that right, Jim?”

“Too right.” ‘Jim’ is in the driver’s seat wearing a blue jumper covered in snowmen. Thankfully, he’s not wearing snow goggles but his eyes are the most alarming shade of blue Molly’s ever seen. “Hi Molly, I’m Noelle’s brother. Nice to meet you.”

 _Jim_. Molly swallows and remembers a goofy grin that charmed her and a criminal mastermind that almost brought that city to its knees. _I don’t do well with men called Jim_. “You look like you’ve been on holiday.” Molly lets her eyes drift closed. The car is starting to swirl. Amelia pulls her ponytail and she feels her stomach roll. _Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up_.

“Skiing. Family thing.” Noelle folds her tiny frame into the car and they’re off.

Jim drives much slower than Molly thought he would, and he laughs when she tells him this. “This isn’t my car, belongs to a friend of mine. He’d kill me if I damaged it. Kill me if he knew I had it.”

“Where’s he?”

“Antigua.” Jim says with a grin. “Lucky bastard, eh?”

“Lucky bastard.”

Jim helps her and Amelia out of the car. Now that they’re outside she can see that he’s tall and broad and likes dark denims and biker boots. His hair is auburn and has fresh snow in it. _He’s actually rather handsome_ , she thinks with a jolt. _More handsome than other Jim. Moriarty_.

“Thank you for the lift home. I went to see my dad. We always used to eat mince pies and drink coffee and brandy. He died a few years ago. Cancer.”

“That’s rough, I’m sorry.” Jim holds Amelia as Molly opens her front door. He stands and half-waits for someone else to appear and when they don’t, says, “Just the pair of you?”

“Its her first Christmas, we had lots of offers but … its complicated.”

"What family isn’t?” Jim grins. Molly’s cheeks are the same colour as Amelia’s snowsuit. His easy acceptance of complicated is enough to make her want to cry.

“We’re having some friends over tomorrow night.” Noelle tucks something under Molly’s arm. “You and Amelia should come along. There will be other mums there too, with their kids.”

"That sounds nice.”

“Great. My address is on the card, so just text me tomorrow and let me know if you’re coming.” Noelle gives Molly a warm smile. “Merry Christmas, Molly.”

###

Molly goes to Noelle’s party. Its nice, full of women just like Noelle, tiny, anxious and bird-like, picking at celery sticks and low-fat dips and chugging wine like there’s no tomorrow. It makes her feel very sad. Molly has some water in one hand and a carrot stick in another and would give anything for a piece of bread.

“Food’s bloody awful, isn’t it?” Jim wanders up to her and gives her a smile. “Fancy going out to get a pizza?”

 _The last time a man called Jim asked me out, they were interested in Sherlock and wanted to kill people just for the sake of it._ But Jim’s name isn’t his fault so Molly nods and off they go. They find a pizza parlour on the main road and split an extra-large cheese and tomato with chips covered in salt and vinegar and generic ketchup that’s a little watery and its so good that Molly thinks that she might be having an orgasm when she takes the first bite, and then blushes when she sees Jim looking at her a little strangely.

 _I wonder what you’d be like to kiss_ , she thinks, and promptly chokes on her slice of pizza. _You’re the first man I’ve met for months that I wanted to kiss, and your name isn’t Sherlock Holmes. Do you deserve a medal for that, or am I just trying out other men, like you would shoes or handbags?_

They talk about their families, Jim regaling her with tales of his and Noelle’s exploits until he blushes and asks the question that he’s been skirting around since he asked her out to lunch. “So you came on your own and you live alone – no dad on the scene?”

"He is.” Molly busies herself with arranging her chips on one side of the pizza and folding it in half, trapping the chips inside. She dunks the lot into ketchup and takes a bite and its probably one of the best things she’s ever eaten. “Its complicated.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“It was complicated then and its complicated now.”

“Is he happy for you to see other people?”

Molly opens her mouth to reply but realises with a start that it isn’t something they’ve ever talked about. _Of course it isn’t. That’s what normal people do. Another New Years’ resolution: get some normal friends_. “He’s never said.”

Jim shakes his head and smiles. “Must be crazy to let a girl like you walk out on him. I mean, you’re smart, absolutely stunning, and you like to make chip butties with your pizza – what’s not to like?”

Molly laughs and despite herself, feels a little of her heartache ease. _So this is what it feels like to be desired_ , she thinks.

Jim asks to see her again but she declines. It wouldn’t be fair and its not like she’s really in a place where she’s looking for someone else. The theory is nice, but a little off in practice. Still, she lets Jim give her his number, a small business card. _A doctor_ , she realises as she turns the card over in the light. _He wrote his number on the back, his personal number. This is what its like to be given a number and invited to call, not text with lab results or when there’s something interesting at Bart’s. This is what normal people do_.

Sherlock is in her living room when she gets home, playing his violin. “How was the pizza?”

Molly puts Amelia on the couch and the little girl crawls towards Sherlock. “You know, it’s a bit stalkerish when you do that. Why aren’t you with your family?”

“Told you. Case. Finished it this morning.” Sherlock strums his violin and lets Amelia snuggle into his side. “You didn’t tell me that she was crawling.”

“You didn’t ask.” Molly ventures into the kitchen and puts the kettle on; to her surprise, Sherlock follows.

“I’m not upset. About Jim the doctor who likes chip and pizza sandwiches.”

Molly stares at him and wants to hit him. _I’m not the Commonwealth and that’s as modest as he gets_ , she had heard John say once, regaling them with a story about the woman. _The Woman_. She grips the kettle hard and waits for it to fill. “No, of course you aren’t. Why would you be?”

Sherlock stares at her. “You’re angry. And a little … disappointed?”

“No. I’m just really not surprised. Thank you for making it so easy for me to forget why I was ever in love with you, by the way. With an ego like yours it’s a miracle you remember anyone else exists.”

“My parents have asked more than once if you will be bringing Amelia to their home before the end of the year.”

“I haven’t decided yet. I have to go back to work tomorrow so it depends on work. There’s nothing stopping them coming here. I have the space.”

“Don’t suggest that. You’ll never get rid of them.” Sherlock’s mobile pings and he grabs it, reads the text. “I have to go. Another case. Text me if anything interesting comes into Bart’s.”

He’s gone then, leaving behind nothing but Molly’s rage. She stares at Amelia, gurgling and babbling in her high chair. _Your daddy, Amelia, is an absolute bastard_.

###

She doesn’t take Amelia to visit Sherlock’s parents. Call her petty if you like, but she’s got snowy London to navigate and a child to look after and a job to do and criminals and other misadventures don’t stop just because it’s the holidays, so Molly gets up and goes to work and leaves Amelia at the crèche where a young woman takes her with wide eyes.

“If you don’t mind me saying, Dr Hooper, but Mr Holmes hasn’t made himself too popular around here.”

 _Sounds just like him_. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Seems to think he knows better than anyone else how to take care of Amelia. Except for you, I mean.”

 _Does he? Well that sounds just like him, too_. “Any problems, just call me. I’ll deal with Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock doesn’t come to visit her at work, but her sister does. “When are you coming to visit me and Rick? Got the place nice, now there’s two of us.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Told the security guard who I was.” Sally’s wearing new jeans and the jumper that Molly wanted for Christmas. “He likes you.”

“He shouldn’t be letting people in. You could have been anyone.”

“I showed him my driving licence.” Janet sniffs. “Janet’s left Rick, in case you were interested.” She looks around the morgue, empty and sterile. “Looks like you prefer to hide down here rather than see your family.”

“The dead don’t make demands on me. How was Christmas Day?”

Sally rolls her eyes. “Mum cried the whole time. Two of her children are getting divorced and another has just had her first baby, but its all about her, obviously. Spent all day crying, wondering how she’d failed us all.”

“Usual stuff then.”

“Be glad you weren’t there. Noelle told me Jim’s quite taken with you, Smitten, she said. Course, I told her that you were completely in love with Amelia’s dad.”

Molly looks up from the report she’s been writing. “Why did you do that?”

“Because its true.”

“Not after tomorrow night. New Years’ resolution.”

Sally smiles. “Good luck with that.” She looks down. “Janet’s left Rick, in case you didn’t hear me. He sits on the couch and cries all day, watches all the rubbish on the telly.”

“He’s in mourning.” Molly glances at the door, wondering if she’s going to get any traffic today. Maybe a particularly juicy corpse will get rid of her sister … she stops herself. _You sound just like Sherlock_.

“So where is everyone?” Sally glances around, wrinkling her nose when her eyes rest on the morgue table. “I thought that holidays were the worst time of year for murders. People have one slice of turkey too many and suddenly all bets are off.”

“Give it time. Once the snow melts and we can see the city again, they’ll be queueing up to get onto my table.”

Sally grins. “Sounds almost rude when you put it like that. So you met him through work then, the great Consulting Detective? You know he invented that position. Must have a pretty high opinion of himself, to do that.”

 _Oh, you have no idea_. “Sounds like you’ve been reading about him.”

“Of course I have. You’re my sister and Amelia’s my niece and it looks like he’ll be hanging around for the next eighteen years at least so I’d better get used to him. Assuming he doesn’t go off and get himself killed.” Sally looks at her nails, newly manicured, by the looks of it. “Have you thought about what will happen, if the press get wind of it, you and Amelia?”

Molly grips her pen a little tighter and thinks about the man on the bus, the nameless corpse who had threatened her with a knife until the Holmes men got wind of it. _Who killed him?_ A part of her would dearly love to know. Another part of her wishes she’d done it herself. “Not much I can do about it except deny it. Sherlock’s name isn’t on the birth certificate.”

“Like that’s going to do anything. He’s a celebrity, you know.”

 _Of course I know_. “Nothing I can do about it now, Sal.”

Sally’s quiet, for a moment. “I understand it, you know. Why you love him. I don’t mean the coat and the suits and the cheekbones and that hair and those eyes. I mean, I think he’s an utter shit, but he loves your work, loves it like you do. He wants you to do well. He believes in you. Not many men are like that. You’re both weird about your work, too. He loves murder, you like weighing dead people’s brains. No wonder you’re so hung up on him. I don’t think anyone will understand that side of you half so well as he does.”

Molly doesn’t have anything else to say to that, so she just lets her sister talk and talk, no-one but the dead for company.

###

Molly packs for her conference trip with something approaching trepidation. The rush-hour train out of London to Manchester Picadilly on Friday night. Two whole nights in the Manchester Hilton. A whole weekend of pathology. A party – party! – on Saturday night. The afternoon train back to London on Sunday afternoon, in Euston for teatime. Home in time to put Amelia to bed. _Two nights away from her_. Molly doesn’t know whether she’s allowed to be excited as well as terrified.

“Any crazy plans for your weekend of freedom?” Mary’s playing with Amelia on Molly’s bed as Molly packs and then discards one outfit after the other. _You’re going to a conference full of other scientists. How hard can it be, to dress yourself and look presentable?_

“Papers on lab testing and equipment, I’m afraid. Nothing too exciting.”

“Well you need some excitement.” Mary pulls a face at Amelia and the little girl doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Molly knows the feeling. “Not all the time you get let loose, and out of London, too. Who knows what can happen.”

“Nothing is going to happen.” Molly packs her favourite jumper and checks the weather forecast again. _Rain, rain, rain. Typical. I wish I was going to Florida_. “Is he here yet?”

“Downstairs with John. They’re talking about their case. A nine, apparently.”

“Can you make sure that Sherlock doesn’t abandon our daughter to chase a case?” Molly’s got serious misgivings about this whole arrangement.

“John wouldn’t let him.” Mary glances towards the closed bedroom door. “He said that you and Sherlock had had a fight.”

“We haven’t had a fight. I wish we had.” Molly throws some underwear into her bag. “I told him I was finished being in love with him. And then I made it my New Years’ resolution, so I can’t go back on it.”

“Maybe you just need to sleep with someone else.” Mary produces a glass of wine from nowhere; Molly wants a cup of tea and a biscuit but that’s part of her resolution too. “Get him out of your system.”

“Even when he was dead, I couldn’t get him out of my system.”

Mary shrugs. “Not to trivialise, but he’s not the only nice-looking guy in the world. Maybe there will be someone for you at the conference?”

“I’m going there to work, not pick up men!”

 _Still_ , Molly thinks as she shaves her legs in the shower that evening, _it would be nice to be touched by a man again before I start collecting my pension_. Sherlock’s downstairs with Amelia when Molly finally ventures downstairs, her bulging overnight bag in her hand. He’s wearing his pyjamas and is stretched out on the sofa, looking quite at home. _Well, I did tell him to make himself at home_ , Molly thinks as she stares at her daughter and feels panic in her stomach. _And here is better than Baker Street. At least there’s no body parts and no skulls for her to play with_.

“You’ve got the number of the hotel, haven’t you?”

“Taped to fridge.”

“And my mobile number?”

“Unless you’ve changed it in the past ten minutes, yes.”

Molly sighs. “You’ll call my sister, or Mrs Hudson, or John and Mary-“

“Molly, I am capable of taking care of our daughter for less than forty-eight hours.”

“You once talked to John for hours without realising that he’d left the house, Sherlock.” Molly wants to march upstairs and unpack her bag and cancel the whole thing. She wants to run headfirst towards the train and not come back for a month. She stares at Sherlock, who is watching her closely. _Is he trying to prove this to me, or to himself?_

John takes her to Euston and hugs her. “Have a good time. And don’t worry about Amelia.”

He waits until Molly’s gone past the turnstiles and onto the train, then he’s swallowed up by the crowd, heavy and thick with rush-hour traffic. Molly’s squeezed next to two bored students and some guys on a stag do. _I’ve left my daughter in the hands of her father, a self-styled consulting detective and high-functioning sociopath, who is also her father. I’m the worst mother in the world_.

###

 _The hotel is nice_ , Molly thinks as she takes off her shoes and makes fists with her toes on the plush carpet. There’s a big bed and a bath, a separate shower stall. No overhead lights, but more side-lights and lamps than she knows what to do with. _Don’t people use overhead lights anymore?_ She sits on the bed and massages her right foot. _The last time I was in a hotel room, someone had threatened me and my baby_. She reaches for her phone.

“She’s fine. Asleep and fed.” Sherlock doesn’t like to call unless he has to, but his voice is soft. _Does he understand, how hard this is?_ “How was the train?”

“Busy.”

“John said there was a stag do on your carriage.”

“They got off at Birmingham. Have you eaten?”

“Leftovers in the fridge. Turkey sandwiches. Why aren’t there any biscuits in the house?”

“New Year’s resolutions.”

“You have a lot of them.”

“I think I need them.”

The line gets very quiet and Molly can hear the awkwardness grow, although she isn’t sure if its on his part or hers. _Hers_ , she decides. _Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do awkwardness, does he_?

“Well then … goodnight, Molly.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” Molly readies for bed and kills the light, lies in bed in fresh, crisp sheets that smell like hotel and listens to an unfamiliar city on a Friday night. She glances at the clock. _Nine pm. Molly Hooper, you’re not even thirty-five and you’re lying in bed on a Friday night before nine pm, in one of the most vibrant cities in the country. What is wrong with you?_

Molly can’t answer. Molly’s asleep, sprawled out across the bed, snoring gently.

###

The next morning, Molly’s awake before six am and in the hotel pool. Her costume is just a little bit too tight and her muscles are cold and stiff, but they soon relax when she starts to glide through the water. Molly’s never been a strong swimmer but she learned with her dad when she was a little girl. When they were all younger they used to go on holidays to Spain and Greece and she and her dad would sit by the water’s edge and dabble their toes in the water. She wonders what Amelia would make of the ocean. She’d like to take a holiday, a proper family holiday in a resort with other families, where Amelia could meet some other children and they could listen to atrocious evening entertainment and drink cheap Sangria and she could get a tan even though she knew it was bad for her. She glances outside. The sun isn’t even up and drizzle batters the glass. _Typical_.

Molly swims until her muscles tremble and her stomach begs for food. Other delegates are arriving as she helps herself to breakfast, and takes a seat as far away from the others as she can. She watches the rain and sees Manchester’s skyline for the first time. _When was the last time she was here?_ She can’t remember. _When was the last time she left London, except to visit Sherlock’s parents?_ She needs to get out more. _There’s more to life than London_ , her dad used to say. _You don’t see the real Britain until you get out of London._ When Molly had been eleven or twelve, her school had organised a French exchange; she’d had a young girl – Chloe – come to stay with her and her family. They’d taken trips to Brighton and Cambridge, even as north as Birmingham, but never further. Her mum has some distant family in Scotland; Molly would like to go there, Europe and the Americas, too. _So many places_.

One of the delegates comes to join her, a doctoral candidate from Durham who shovels scrambled eggs into his mouth like the world’s ending and this is their last meal. He’s impressed that she works at Bart’s and the lenses on his glasses are covered in fingerprints. Molly wants to clean them for him and push them right back onto his nose, where they belong. Eventually he ambles off and Molly’s quite glad of the solitude. _This weekend is the first since Amelia’s birth where I’ve been alone_.

There’s nothing on the first panel that she wants to see, but she doesn’t mind. The hotel is nice so she explores it for a while, feeling a little bit like Jack Nicholson’s wife in _The Shining_. The rain batters the windows and all she wants is to run down the road and feel the cold water on her skin, but settles instead for sitting in the hotel restaurant’s outdoor dining area in her coat, with a cup of tea and a crumpet dripping butter.

“Bad day already?” A voice slides into the chair next to her; when Molly turns around, there’s a man at her table. “Don’t look so sad, it isn’t even noon yet. I never met a problem that a good lunch couldn’t fix; how about I buy you some?”

“You’re American.”

“Was it the accent that gave it away?” The man grins. He’s a bit older than her, with brown hair brushed and parted on one side, no trace of grey. He’s got a boyish face but its around the eyes where he looks older, like he’s been around the world a few times. _He must have been_ , she thinks, _to get here_.

“Something like that.”

“You mind if I smoke?” The man pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket along with a hotel match book. He’s wearing a suit and his cuffs have cufflinks in the shape of … Molly can’t quite work it out. A state, maybe? Her knowledge of American geography is terrible.

“No.”

“Good. Can’t believe no-one smokes in this country. You all wear those patches or smoke those funny e-cigarettes.”

“Smoking will kill you.” The man rolls his eyes.

“You’re not from this conference, are you? You are!” He laughs when he sees her cheeks flush. “All got a bit much for you?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Molly decides that she likes this American, even if she doesn’t know his name. “I’m Molly.”

“Hi, Molly. I’m Jack.” Jack takes her hand and shakes it. He has a strong grip and he isn’t wearing a wedding ring. _Not_ , she supposes, _that that means anything_ ; plenty of married men she knows either don’t have, or don’t wear a wedding ring. Still, something about the way she noticed it, makes her heart beat a little harder. _Maybe Mary was right, after all_.

They watch the rain and talk for a while, through some snacks and tea and coffee and appetisers. Jack’s in town on business, passing through on his way to Europe. He works for a bank, a big American one that Molly has never heard of. He likes the weather because it reminds him of his hometown but is blown away by the size of the cars and how everyone drives on the wrong side of the road. He smokes five cigarettes while he and Molly pass the time, but he doesn’t smell as much as she thought he would. Maybe its because they’re outside, or he’s got really good aftershave, or maybe its because the rain is gently hitting the pavement and Molly’s alone in a city she hasn’t been to for years, and she’s lonely and would just like the company of a man, even if its just for a little while.

They split the lunch bill and Jack tells her about his divorce and it’s the first time his smile cracks. “I’m sorry.” He has a heavy gold clip full of notes; Molly sees tens and twenties along with Euros and a fair number of dollars. “I’m pretty sure I just killed whatever mood we had. Easier to talk about this stuff with a total stranger, y’know?”

“I can understand that.”

“The ex-wife says I need therapy. I think I just needed to get out. Feel better now I’ve done it, even if I’m pissed that I’m just another divorce statistic.”

“My brother and my sister are getting divorced.” Molly stares at the cigarettes on the table and suddenly wishes that she could smoke. Now seems like the perfect time to share a cigarette, smoke swirling up towards the ceiling. Or maybe she’s just watched _Casablanca_ too many times.

“You married?”

“No.”

“Kids?”

“One.” Molly smiles and realises that she hasn’t checked her phone all morning. “A daughter. She’ll be one in about four months.”

“I’ve got two. Girl and a boy, best of both worlds.” Jack pulls out his wallet and shows her an old photograph. “Her dad on the scene?”

“Sort of.” Molly drinks her lemonade and wishes it was wine. “Its complicated.”

“Always is. So he’s in London and you’re here, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Jack’s eyes meet Molly’s across the table. _Ask me_ , a part of her whispers. _Ask me to come back to your room. Ask me to ask you to come back to my room. Ask me to take off your clothes and put my hands on your body. Ask me because that’s what strangers who meet in strange cities do when they’re lonely and sad, isn’t it?_

A group of delegates spill outside for lunch and cigarettes; one of them is someone Molly went to university with and sees in London from time to time. She calls Molly’s name and waves, and the moment’s gone.

“Looks like your friends are here.” Jack stands up, offers Molly his hand once more. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Molly Hooper.”

He leaves his business card on the table, his mobile number written on the back. Molly puts it in her purse, next to Jim’s. _All these men with their business cards, passing them out like they’re breath mints_.

She calls Mary, who answers on the first ring. “How’s Amelia?”

“Fine. Honestly, Molly, she’s doing really well. You didn’t tell me that she could say so much!”

“She’s a chatterbox.” Molly stares at the business card in her hand and says, “How’s Sherlock?”

Mary doesn’t answer for a few minutes. “He’s, you know. Sherlock. But Amelia’s fine, Molly. Sherlock’s doing really well.”

“He hasn’t taken her back to the morgue, has he?”

“No. He hasn’t taken any cases at all.”

“None?”

“None.”

 _Wow_. Molly’s impressed. She hangs up and drums her fingers on the table. Mary’s hiding something, she’s sure. She isn’t sure what it is, but something in the way her breath hitched … she grabs her phone and writes a text.

How are things? MH

Several minutes later, she has a reply.

Fine. Go back to the conference. SH.

Molly stares at the screen, debates sending another text, but realistically, what would she say? So she puts her phone in her pocket and goes back inside.

###

The keynote speaker is Professor James Darcy from the Body Farm at the University of Tennessee, and to Molly’s immense surprise, he knows exactly who Molly is and makes a beeline for her as soon as his Q&A session is finished.

“Heard mighty big things about you and Sherlock Holmes on our side of the pond.” He shakes Molly’s hand and pumps it like he’s trying to get water out of a well. “When I saw your name on the list of delegates I thought Christmas had come around again.”

“Oh, er, well … thanks very much.”

They sit next to each other during dinner, where he peppers Molly with questions about life at Bart’s (he did a year’s exchange there when he was in medical school, _long before your time_ , he says with a smile), Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and some of her most exciting cases. Molly answers his questions as best she can, but what she’s not prepared for is the conversation that happens when they’re trying to order a drink at the bar.

“Y’know, the Body Farm has an exchange programme.” Darcy buys them both drinks, neat liquor without a mixer, just ice. He sips his and smiles a satisfied smile. Molly really, really wants some lemonade to water hers down. “Getting to that time when we open up the programme to international applicants. You ever seen Tennessee in the fall, Dr Hooper?”

“I, uh … no.” Molly grinds her teeth together. _Its not hard to string a sentence together, Molly_. “I’ve heard its lovely, though.”

“It would suit you.” Darcy smiles at her. “We want to share our facilities with the international pathology community, Dr Hooper. Crime doesn’t stay local; why would we? You could talk to the leading specialists in our field, cutting-edge technology. And Knoxville’s got great barbeque.”

“It sounds like a wonderful opportunity.”

“You spent a year there, three years, even five and decide you want to come back to Bart’s, think of what you’ll have to offer, what you’ll have to offer anywhere else. More to the world than Bart’s and London.”

“I have a daughter.”

Darcy shrugs. “And? Bring her! Knoxville’s got great schools, wonderful neighbourhoods. ‘Course, she might get an accent a bit different than yours!”

Molly smiles, but doesn’t really know where to look. It feels like she’s wandered into a dream. She’s pleased when Darcy’s accosted by other scientists and leaves her alone with yet another business card with a number on the back of it.

The hotel’s suddenly too stuffy and tight so she leaves, walks along Oxford Road, past student bars and university buildings. Its busy, cabs and people rushing around, and the rain is fine and clings to her hair, making everything frizzy. Its cold and she’s left her coat in her hotel room but she doesn’t care; the cold air rushes between her ears and pushes everything away.

She walks until she’s soaked to the bone, finds a café that’s open late. She buys a can of lemonade and drinks it through a straw, watches the crowds go past. The three business cards sit on the table, still damp from a recent wipe-down, smelling of disinfectant. _Jim, Jack, James_. Molly wants to giggle at the alliteration.

She picks up Jim’s card. It’s a nice card, pleasant to touch. _A bit like Jim, really. He’s the kind of bloke I could have easily fallen in love with, if I’d met him before Sherlock_.

Jack’s card is bent in one corner, a small blemish. His card is glossy and smells like cigarettes and aftershave and adventure. She puts it back in her purse and decides that she’ll look in on it from time to time, the American with a nice smile who was the first man since Sherlock who made her want to smoke cigarettes with a single white sheet wrapped around them both.

James’ card is crisp and new and very professional. It has the University of Tennessee emblem in the top left-hand corner and his name in black, embossed letters. He hasn’t written his personal number on it; just his work mobile and email. _Professional_. Molly sniffs the card and smells previously-unconsidered opportunities, and excitement tickles her stomach.

 _He’s right. There is more to life than London and Bart’s_. Molly doesn’t know much about Knoxville but she does know about the Body Farm, knows its reputation. Its not the biggest facility of its kind but it’s the oldest, the one with the most name recognition. Any period of time spent there would enhance her career, Bart’s promotion or not. _And I’ve never been to America before_.

The party’s still in full swing when Molly gets back; she’s never seen a party full of drunk pathologists and isn’t about to start now. Jack’s sitting in the bar, nursing what looks like a scotch and the remnants of some food; Molly’s hand twitches and she thinks about inviting him up to her room for a cigarette that she won’t smoke, but eventually decides against it. Instead, she changes into her costume and swims laps, her mind churning.

###

The train stations tick down faster than Molly thought; soon she’ll be back in London, back at her normal life. Darcy had found her again at breakfast, given her some brochures about the Body Farm and wrangled a promise out of her that she would at least think about submitting an application to the fellowship programme, and Molly always likes to keep her promises.

She glances at her mobile, wonders if she should call Mary and Sherlock again but thinks better of it. _I’ll be home in less than two hours, and I just want to sit, alone, for a little bit longer_. Eventually her brain feels full and no amount of sorting will clear it, so she folds away all her brochures and paperwork and closes her eyes. _I should get a mind palace like Sherlock’s_.

The train is late, getting into Euston, sits in a dark tunnel for what feels like ages. Molly hopes there isn’t a body on the line; they’re always so messy, when they come in and the idea of someone doing that makes her sad. The train’s busy, people crammed into seats and standing by the doors, everyone wearing the same bored expressions, wanting to be anywhere but here. But eventually, the train eases into their final destination and Molly’s able to stand up and stretch her legs, get her bag from the overhead compartment and disembark. There’s a turnstile at the end of the walkway and her bag strap catches in one of the arms; it takes almost a minute of pulling and swearing to work it free, but then she’s through, spat out into Euston’s main forecourt, full of shops and bars and … _what the bloody hell is he doing here?_

He’s head and shoulders taller than everyone else, as he usually is. He’s wearing that same coat and scarf that he wears everywhere, collar turned up against the cold. His hands are behind his back, hair full of snow. Molly walks towards him and he tips his head, gives her the barest hint of a smile.

“Your train was late.”

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock takes her bag from her, rests his hand on her shoulder for the briefest of moments, grip firm even through her coat. Molly stares up at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There’s nothing in his face to suggest a calamity though. _So then why is he here?_

“Where’s Amelia?”

“Mary and John have her for the moment. They’re bringing her to the house, later.”

“Is she alright?”

“She’s perfectly fine.”

 _I don’t understand_. _Why are you here?_ “Did something happen at Bart’s, with my mum, my brother and sister-“

“I simply wanted to meet you at the station.” Sherlock’s watching her very closely. “Does that surprise you?”

“Uh … yes, it does!”

“Come on.” Sherlock touches her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

TBC


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow. I have some of the nicest and most diligent reviewers. Thank you so much for your kind words  One of my reviewers noted that poor Molly sounds like she’s a little too fond of the wine, I really hope that isn’t the case!
> 
> A/N: I’m also sorry that this update took so long to come out, but I wanted to make time for this fic, and it will be finished, so off we go …

Sherlock leads them out of Euston station, past the Tube and the bus stop and the taxi rank, almost towards the British Library, when he stops at a small, black car that looks like it will barely accommodate Molly and her bag. _What’s going on?_ Then she spies the little smiley face sticker on the rear bumper and says, “This is Mary’s car.”

“Yes, I borrowed it for the purposes of collecting you tonight.” Sherlock goes around to the passenger side and opens the door, takes her bag from her and puts it in the boot. “Don’t just stand there, Molly – get in before I get another ticket that Lestrade will have to fix for me.”

“You shouldn’t ask him to do that.” Molly gets into the car on autopilot; Sherlock makes sure that her seatbelt is buckled before he closes the door. “He almost got sacked after you died.”

“And my return to the land of the living reinstated him with a full pardon, so he owes me.” Sherlock gets into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut. The seat is pushed as far back as it will go; _Mary will kill him_ , Molly thinks.

“Does Mary know you’ve got her car?”

Sherlock looks at her like she’s taken leave of her senses. “Of course she does; she gave me the keys.”

Molly stares at the gearstick, the top completely obscured by Sherlock’s large, gloved hand. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“That would defeat the purpose of my collecting you from the station. I _can_ drive, Molly.” Sherlock glances in her direction and gives her a brief smile. “Contrary to popular belief.”

“I didn’t know you’d taken lessons.” “Hardly taxing.”

Sherlock checks his mirrors, indicates, and they’re off, even if he’s a bit heavier on the gas than Molly would be and she’s sure the clutch won’t recover as he slips from second to third gear and back again as they greet traffic. Molly watches London whizz by, the red buses and the cabs and cars and pedestrians trying to get home on a Sunday night.

“Thank you. For coming to get me. I was dreading the Tube at this time of night. Although you still haven’t explained why you’re here.”

“Isn’t that what people do, for those they care about?”

Molly sits and stares at him, sure that her mouth is hanging open. _Did Sherlock Holmes just talk to me about his feelings?_ She puts a hand to her head, sure that she must be running a fever. The traffic eases and they’re on the move again, into the throng of traffic. Molly grips the sides of the seat, her knuckles white. She’s seen Sherlock in the lab when he’s manic, or bored, or any other of his moods aside from still and contemplative. She’s seen the state of the Baker Street wall, the harpoon with dried blood on the blade. _Why, why did anyone think it would be a good idea to allow him behind the wheel of a car?_

They drive for several miles without incident; he’s a more cautious driver than Molly would have guessed, although she can’t work out if its because he hasn’t driven for a while or if its just for her benefit. _Her benefit_ , she decides. _There’s no way Sherlock would let something like lack of practice stop him from showing off his skills. He’s being cautious for my benefit_.

“How’s Amelia?”

“She’s with Mary and John. But she’s fine.”

“Did you have any problems this weekend?”

“Nothing that wasn’t handled.”

 _Handled?_ Molly swallows. _Why doesn’t that fill me with confidence?_

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Sherlock’s taking the back roads, avoiding traffic and congestion. Most of London’s been dug up during the past few months, or at least, that’s how it feels – road works - and Molly’s glad for the constant movement, even if she does feel like the drive is an endless set of constant right and left turns. Finally, Sherlock eases the car to a stop, and performs a perfect reverse parallel-park into a space barely big enough for a bicycle, never mind a car. Molly looks around and sees coffee shops and restaurants but no house, no home.

“I don’t live here.”

“I know.” Sherlock opens the door, goes around to her side and opens her door before she can protest. “We’re making a stop first.”

“A stop.” Molly sighs. _Of course we are_. “Sherlock, I didn’t bring my kit with me. If you want me to look at a body we’re going to have to go back to Bart’s-“

“Not a case, Molly.” Sherlock touches her arm, gestures that she follow him. “Dinner.”

“Dinner?” Mary stares at the small restaurant, the soft candlelight and empty space by the window. _Dinner?_ “I don’t understand.”

“Food, Molly. We both need to consume it, correct?”

“Well, yes, but-“

“Well then, now that’s settled, shall we?” Sherlock opens the door and a gust of garlicky, warm air hits Molly right in the face. Her stomach rumbles and she realises that she’s absolutely starving. When was the last time she ate? She can’t remember, probably a crappy sandwich on the train.

“Settled?” Things don’t feel particularly settled, but then a man with salt and pepper hair is hugging Sherlock and ushering them both inside with a wet kiss to Molly’s cheek. He gestures to the table at the window, slips Molly’s coat from her shoulders and lets her sit, and Molly’s got a menu in her hand before she can say, “What are we doing here?”

“Eating, Molly.” Sherlock’s looking at the menu, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “You should try the prawns, by the way, John says they’re excellent.”

“I thought you didn’t eat when you were working.”

He glances at her, eyes on her face. “I’m not working. I’m here with you, having dinner.”

 _Oh_. Molly looks at Sherlock, then, really, _really_ looks at him. She sees a dark blue shirt with a very fine, pale blue stripe, not something he would wear to work. He’s wearing jeans – jeans! – too, dark wash denim. Definitely something that he wouldn’t wear to work. _Oh_. _When he says he’s here with me, he really means it_. She reaches for her hair, desperately hoping that her ponytail isn’t half falling out and that her mascara hasn’t run. _Does she smell like a train?_ She wants to sniff herself.

“That’s, er … really thoughtful of you, Sherlock. You, er … you look really nice. Bit of a change, from what you usually wear.”

Sherlock glances up from his menu, his attention on something outside, over Molly’s shoulder. When she turns around she spies a couple braced against the cold, kissing like the world’s ending and this is their last chance to say goodbye. When she turns around, Sherlock’s hand isn’t drumming anymore, its curled into a loose fist. His eyes come back to her, sharp and focused, like he’s on a case.

“Did I ever tell you why I’m married to my work?”

A waiter comes to take their order. Molly hasn’t even looked at the menu. Sherlock despatches him with a drinks order and a request for table bread. Once he’s gone, Sherlock speaks again and Molly presses her lips closed. _No matter what he says, you’re going to listen_.

“I’m an addict, Molly.” Sherlock says it with all the casualness of telling someone that their favourite colour is green, or they have brown eyes. “Before the work it was cigarettes, before cigarettes it was drugs, before drugs it was learning, science, before that, reading, questions, my father’s garden. It’s the only way I know how to be, and as my brother likes to say, we are what we are. I’ll never not be an addict.”

 _Drugs. Before cigarettes, it was drugs_. Molly makes her face stay composed. _Was. Past tense. Not anymore_. She’s got questions, so many questions but all she says is “Alright” because Sherlock is talking to her, really, _really_ talking. Its like a wall has been breached.

Sherlock looks at her, really looks at her. “You’ve seen me at my best and my worst, but you remained my friend, my confidante. You continue to allow me unfettered access to our daughter.”

“She’s your daughter too, Sherlock. She’ll never not be your daughter.”

“You’re a good mother, Molly.” Sherlock looks down at the menu. The hand that’s a fist tightens, the knuckles white. _Its hard, for him to do this_. She opens her mouth to tell him that he doesn’t have to tell her whatever it is he’s about to, but he starts talking anyway. “My mother put me in a school that I hated, thinking I would thrive because Mycroft did and we were so alike, or so she thought. Mycroft had done well there, she said. I would do well there, so off I went. She won the most prestigious mathematical prize on the planet but couldn’t face the truth that her youngest child would rather take a train to Glasgow on his own than live his life. You would not do that. Amelia will never have to go through that. And that is important.” He presses his lips together. “I have come to the conclusion that she is important to me. Sentiment, not facts. She doesn’t give me cases like Lestrade does, or care for my needs the way Mrs Hudson does, or tolerates me the way John does, or even help me in the way my brother does. She serves very little practical point in my life, but she is still important to me.”

Molly stares at him, unblinking even when their drinks and bread arrive. She takes a sip of wine, couldn’t even speak to how it tasted, or even if it was wet. She’s still staring. _How like him to deduce his daughter. Data, Sherlock, always data_. “She’s less than a year old, Sherlock.”

“Amelia is important to me. You are important to me.” Sherlock blows out a deep breath and for a second Molly wonders if he’s about to start hyperventilating. “Your absence this weekend gave me ample time to think.”

“Er … okay?”

“You are not just Amelia’s mother. You’re a person. You’re a pathologist. You’re my pathologist. Your presence in my life … Moriarty was foolish, when he didn’t put a sniper on you. He didn’t realise, because I didn’t realise, not until I sat in your house with our daughter and all I heard was silence.”

A thousand quips come to Molly’s tongue: Amelia’s better-behaved with you than with me, if all you heard was silence, but she looks at Sherlock and for the first time in her life, is truly dumbstruck.

Sherlock tears off a piece of bread. “I have data about you as Amelia’s mother. I have data about you as a pathologist. I don’t have data about you, Molly Hooper, and the data that I do have doesn’t match the facts that I have for you now. I have conflicting sets of data, Molly. I just know that you are important to me, as those things, but as more than those things, but I don’t have data on you.”

Molly wants to stand up and scream. _I’m not just data to you! You want bloody data, go to the British Library!_ But she looks at him, mechanically eating his bread, washing it down with water ( _an addict_ , he’d said. _Why drugs, why not booze? Unless he’d already tried booze and didn’t like it?_ ) and she just couldn’t. _Sherlock doesn’t talk about feelings. He doesn’t talk about sentiment, doesn’t have any time for it. But he’s trying now. He said himself that he’ll never be more than what he is, but he’s trying. That’s worth something, isn’t it?_

She smiles, and takes a sip of wine, tastes grapes and sunshine and the summer on her tongue. She’d love to go away somewhere warm where she could swim outside, feel the sand between her toes. “Maybe I should go away more often.”

They sit in silence, Sherlock drumming his fingers against the table with such force that Molly’s surprised there aren’t grooves in the wood. Her fingers reach for a piece of bread and she puts it in her mouth, chews mechanically and doesn’t taste a thing.

“The conference was good.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches; he might come across as socially inept but he knows an opening when he sees it. “Tell me about it.”

So Molly does. She talks about the papers and the panels, the crazy party on the Saturday night. She talks about the new equipment she saw, the slideshows and the ridiculous questions and how Sherlock would have deduced everyone in the room inside of five minutes and does with time to spare before their meals arrive. She leaves out Jack, only because he’s hers and she wants to keep it that way, and the Body Farm because that’s hers like Jack is, for the moment, and what woman wants to give away all of her secrets on the first date, anyway?

 _Date_ , she realises as she tucks into her pasta, groaning at the thick, rich sauce that’s like a little slice of heaven. _Is that what we’re doing? A first date while our near-one year old sits with John and Mary? First I fake his death, then we have a baby. Now we’re on something that could be called a date, if you squint. We really did do all this backwards, didn’t we?_

Sherlock listens to her talk, peppers her with questions about the panels and the papers that she saw, the new techniques and how she thought she might find them useful in the lab, in the morgue. In the past he would rant and rave, dominate the conversation with his deductions; there’s none of that now. _He’s trying_ , Molly thinks, _he’s really, really trying_.

They split the bill; there’s a momentary look of panic on Sherlock’s face, like she’s deviating from a script ( _pointers from John, probably; God, he and Mary are probably sitting at home, giggling like kids at the thought of Sherlock Holmes trying to romance her_ ), then they’re done and the rest of the night stretches out before them.

 _Not romance her_ , she thinks as she puts on her coat before he can offer to help her. _Data-gathering_.

They drive back to her house on Dunstable Road, quiet and still but not uncomfortable. The car smells like garlic and fresh pasta and Molly really wants to clean her teeth. Sherlock’s eyes are on the road, reflexes perfect but Molly senses distance, like he’s retreated a little. _Processing_ , she thinks, fumbling in her bag for a breath mint. _He’s probably processing_.

Her house is quiet and the front door creaks sounds very loudly when Molly opens it and crosses the threshold, Sherlock behind her. She flips on the light, half-afraid of what she’s going to find. She has _been_ in Baker Street, after all. Sherlock might be known for his deductive reasoning, but the last time she checked, deductive reasoning did not include cleaning or cooking, and he has been here on his own.

The hallway is clean, the carpet fluffed both ways, like its recently been hoovered. One of Amelia’s coats is hung over the stairs, but there’s nothing untidy, nothing out of place. _So far, so good_. Molly hangs up her coat but leaves her bag where it is. More than anything she wants a cup of tea. The kitchen too is clean, no wild experiments on the table or in the fridge. Molly can smell bleach and washing up liquid, and the kitchen is warm the way it is after the dishwasher has finished its cycle. _In fact_ , Molly thinks as she fills the kettle, _its cleaner than it was when she left_.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I’ve been reliably informed that entering a tidy home after a period away is considered relaxing.”

Molly smiles, looks out the window where there’s still a little bit of snow on the ground. _Research_ , she thinks. _He’s done research. What on earth’s happened over the past forty-eight hours to make him change so much? A head injury? A doppelganger? Or has he finally just woken up to the fact that I’m worth knowing, and he was going to lose me if he didn’t?_

 _Liar, a small part of her says. No matter how much you try, you’re always going to be his. Run away to Manchester, or another hospital, or even the Body Farm if you want. It doesn’t matter. You said yourself that he’s spoiled you for other men_.

“D’you want a cup of tea?”

“Love one.” Sherlock’s taken off his coat and is leaning against the kitchen counter, watching her. Its weird, seeing him in regular clothes; she half wants to tell him but doesn’t want to offend, not when he’s clearly gone to so much trouble to try.

They stand in the kitchen in silence and its weird, weird like it hasn’t been before, even when he was staying at her flat and then when she was pregnant and afterwards when Amelia was between them, a little sliver binding them both together. Molly can feel Sherlock’s eyes on her, deducing, data-mining her. It makes her feel a little bit like an insect under a microscope but she doesn’t know how to tell him to stop without being impolite. She’s not sure if he could stop, even if he wanted to. Its all he knows, isn’t it? Not one possible explanation of some of the facts, but the only explanation of all of the facts. He knows that she’s important to him but he doesn’t know how. As a pathologist? As Amelia’s mother? As Molly Hooper? As all of the above? Is it even possible, to fit parts of her into those neat little boxes that never bump into or overlap the others? She looks at him and she sees Amelia’s father, but she sees a brilliant mind and a handsome man, an elusive detective and a man forever unknown to him. When she thinks about it, as she pours two cups of tea and feels Sherlock’s eyes on her, he’s just as elusive to her as she is to him.

He takes a sip, small and experimental. “Its better than your coffee.”

She grins at him and sips her own. “Cheeky bastard.”

Desperate to sit down, Molly retreats into the living room. _Nothing out of place, really_ , Molly thinks, _no smiley face on the wall, no random experiments on the coffee table_. The couch has a few books on it, a collection of titles so obscure that they can only be Sherlock’s. His violin is on a stand in the bay window that looks out onto the back garden. He’s been composing; Molly notes the music stand with sheet paper, a collection of notes scrawled in pencil.

“I wish I could play an instrument.” Her fingers reach out to touch the paper. He’s pressed hard; the pencil almost going through to the other side. She can almost imagine it now, him playing furiously, trying to work out a troublesome point on a case, pausing only to make note of the notes, pressing his pencil so hard it broke the paper. “I tried to learn, in school. We had these music classes, ghastly things. No matter how much I tried, I always ended up with the triangle. The boys’ school over the road offered private guitar lessons, some of the girls used to go there, although I don’t think music lessons were what they had in mind.”

“It helps me think.” Sherlock sits down on the couch, glides into the seat with an ease that makes Molly think he’s been sitting there a lot this weekend. That’s alright, she doesn’t mind. She’s happy to sit down anywhere as long as she can take off her trainers and lean back against a comfortable seat and not have strangers talk to her. Honestly, what happened to the days where you could sit in a crowded carriage and have no conversation at all?

“John and Mary have set a date for their union.” Sherlock watches her; Molly can feel it. _Why can’t he just say what he wants to say, like he used to?_ She doesn’t like it, she decides, this tip-toeing around. It isn’t very Sherlockian.

“They didn’t waste any time.”

“John is anxious to become another statistic.”

Molly smiles, Jack’s face floating behind her eyes. “You’re the second person to say that to me this weekend.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push. Instead he sips his tea and says, “You’re different, to how I thought you would be.”

“How did you think I would be?”

“I’m not sure.” Sherlock looks uncertain. He’s on unsteady ground, here. But then, so is she. “A distinct lack of data to draw a conclusion that explains all the facts.” His eyes fall to a toy on the ground, in front of the fire. “Mycroft thinks I’m a fool.” He says, a voice that’s very quiet. “Caring about someone is a disadvantage, he says.”

“Well, he dotes on Amelia, so the man’s clearly talking rubbish. Is he married, your brother?”

Sherlock looks like he’d choke on his tea if it was remotely near his mouth. “No. That would be a distinct disadvantage for him. Bad enough that he has me to deal with; I think a wife would tip him over the edge.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Molly wants to light a fire but she’s too comfortable to move. “Try having Sally and Rick for siblings.”

“I’d sooner not.”

“Sal didn’t always used to be like this.” Molly drinks some tea. Its nice, this, having someone to talk to. She’s almost forgotten what its like. “Moving away, getting married, it changed her. And she was so young, Rick too. Mum despaired that I’d ever get married. Dad used to tell her to stop being such a nag and leave me be.”

“Your father is an elusive man.”

Molly almost drops her tea on her sofa. “What?”

Sherlock stares at the fire. “You talk about him often. He’s important to you, even now. To understand why, I need to know about him. The other men in your life, John and Lestrade and Mycroft are all open books. Rick’s so easy to deduce I did it before I even met him, but your father … I found his obituary online, read it while you were away. Did you write it?”

“Yes.” It comes out as a choke. Molly wants to cry but she isn’t sure what they’d be tears of. Rage? Sadness? Melancholy? Some bizarre sense of joy?

“Not much about him in the newspaper. You visit him, even though he’s dead. Sentiment. You’re saddened, by talking about him, but that doesn’t make you stop, suggesting that you’re trying to work through your feelings, that they make you happy as well as sad. You take Amelia to see him. You want her to know about your father even though they’ll never meet. She’ll never know him the way you do, but never know him through anyone but you, either.”

“He was important to me. Isn’t Mark important to you?”

“Biologically.” Sherlock scoffs. “He preferred the company of his garden to his sons.”

“You said that you liked his garden.”

“For a time. Until I discovered books. And the violin. And that I was allergic to freshly-cut grass.”

“Dad liked to read.” Molly can close her eyes and still smell the pages. “Old books. He loved detective stories. Bit like you, that way. He walked me to school on my first day and moved me into my halls of residence when I went to uni. He held my hand when our cat died and I cried, and sometimes I dream about him, and its so real that I wake up and my hand reaches for my mobile to call him, until I remember that he’s dead, and I cry into the pillow.” She sips her tea, not because she wants it but because she wants something to put into her mouth to make her stop talking. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?”

Molly almost snorts tea up her nose. “Because you find sentiment disgusting.”

“I find many things disgusting. Not sentiment.”

“Uncomfortable, then.”

“Just as you find my lack of comfort with sentiment to be uncomfortable.” Sherlock sips his tea and stares at her. “And so we stand, you and I, poles apart and never touching, nothing but our daughter between us.”

Something about his gaze puts Molly’s teeth on edge. If she didn’t know better she’d say it was desire, and she gets off the sofa like it’s on fire, moves to the fireplace and begins to build a fire.

“I appreciate that you’re trying. Amelia will appreciate it, as she gets older. Children need to know that their parents love them.”

“Molly.” Sherlock’s hand comes on her shoulder and he’s there on the floor next to her, eyes on her and Molly doesn’t speak, doesn’t even think that she breathes. Sherlock’s hand trails along her shoulder, up her neck, those long, slightly cool fingers that make her shiver. He shakes slightly. _The exertion of feeling, of sentiment. Molly wants to cry. Why did I ever think that we could work?_

They sit on the floor for what feels like an age, the fire crackling and spitting in the hearth. Time feels like its standing still for Molly; the world could end outside and she wouldn’t notice. There’s a small part of her that hates how he can do this, freeze time for her. _One person shouldn’t be allowed that much power over another, should they? Shouldn’t there be some kind of law against that? Why is it illegal for someone to break into your house and steal something as meaningless as your telly, but when it comes to your heart and your soul, all bets are off?_

A key in the door, the creak of wood and metal moving, then John and Mary’s voices in the hall, calling their names and the moment’s gone. Molly moves first, like she’s fifteen again and back at school, behind the gym where she let Henry Boston kiss her, her very first kiss. Her cheeks are just as red, she’s sure, even if she is only sitting with the father of her child in front of an open hearth after a weekend away.

“Car looks alright.” Mary looks from one face to the other, her eyes twinkling and her cheeks red from the cold. “You didn’t write her off, then.”

Sherlock unfolds himself from the floor, standing close to Molly but not touching. The air is crackling like the fire; can’t Mary feel it, smell it, even? “I told you that I would return the car undamaged – why does everyone think I’m going to wrap it around a tree?”

“Mycroft _did_ tell us what you did with your mum’s Micra when you were seventeen.” John’s holding Amelia close, even in her car seat.

“The tree was in my way.”

“And I _did_ live with you.” John kisses Molly’s cheek. He smells like winter and his stubble brushes against her cheek. “How was the conference, Molly?”

“Good, thanks. Great.” Molly brushes hair behind her ear, conscious that her cheeks are burning. _Did you like it_ , Henry had whispered in her ear as they were marched towards the headmistress’ office, her contraband lipstick still on his mouth. _Did you, Molls? I’d love it if you let me kiss you again._ She didn’t remember much about it, just a mash of tongue and lips and teeth, but she remembers the burn, the slow ache and heat in her stomach.

“Good papers?”

“Great, thanks.”

“Make any new friends?” Mary grins.

“A few.”

Sherlock gives her a strange look, like he’s found something between the two women that he can’t deduce, but holds his tongue until Mary and John are long gone and Amelia is asleep in her bed and its just them, her and Sherlock, on the sofa.

“Tell me about your new friends.”

“What new friends?” Molly’s swapped tea for wine, a nice cold white in a small glass, a present from Rick on her birthday a few years ago. She needs to call her baby brother and see how he is, how he’s bearing up under the strain of, well … everything.

“Your new friends that Mary was asking about.”

“They aren’t friends.” Molly thinks of the business cards in her purse and takes another sip of wine. “Not really.”

“So why call them such?”

“Because its still considered impolite to call them men who want to sleep with you.” The words are out before Molly can stop them; she’d clap her hands over her mouth if she had a free hand, but she’s not the mousy pathologist Sherlock met years ago at Bart’s. Why lie about how she feels? So she takes another sip of wine, watches Sherlock’s expression and says, “And who you want to sleep with.”

To his credit, the world’s only consulting detective doesn’t blink, but in the flickering firelight, something twitches, beneath the skin. “And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Sleep with them?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“You’re the mother of my child.”

“And we aren’t together. Do you see them here, with Amelia?”

“You’re my friend. I care about what happens to you.”

Molly sips some more wine, let’s the moment play out just long enough to reach awkward. She’s got a cruel streak. “No. I didn’t.”

Sherlock nods once, a slow, slight movement of the head. “Why not?”

“Why do you think?” Molly watches the wine dance in her glass, heavy movement against the firelight. “I still love you. Sentiment, again.”

“But you thought about it?”

“Its been over a year since I last had sex; of course I thought about it.”

“I didn’t think that casual encounters were something you did.”

“You don’t know very much about me, Sherlock.” _Who is this creature in Molly’s skin_ , she wonders, _this bold little thing sat in her jeans and smelling like a train and telling Sherlock Holmes just what she’d like to do to men she’s only just met?_ “And isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you’re let out of your box?”

“Boxes are dull. I haven’t had one in years.”

Molly shrugs. “Either that or you just can’t see the walls anymore.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, just a little. _He’s unsure_ , Molly thinks, and says so.

“I assure you, I’m not.”

“Yes you are.” Molly’s warming to her topic, can feel it on her tongue. “You’re unsure of me, when I’m like this. Molly the Pathologist is easy to handle, lab benches and Bunsen burners and body parts between us. You can ask me for brains and eyeballs but not about my feelings. Molly the Mum is easy to handle, its all about nappies and schools, whether Amelia’s happy, if she’s walking, talking, whatever. Even Molly who is in love with you is easy to handle, she’ll let you into her bed without a second thought, not to your face, anyway. But this, now? When I’ve had a drink and I’m telling you that I wanted to have sex with a man that wasn’t you but didn’t because I’m still in love with you? You can’t bear it.”

Sherlock is quiet for a long time. Molly’s poured him a glass of wine but he doesn’t drink it until now, the only drink she’s seen him have since the Baker Street cognac at Christmas. Eventually he says, “I’m trying my best.”

“I know. I just hope its good enough, for the both of us.”

###

Later, as she’s going to bed, Molly hears his voice in the dark. “You had second thoughts?”

Molly’s fingers drum on the doorframe, soft against the recently-stripped wood. _Its probably easier for him to ask, in the dark, on the couch, fingers steepled together. Much easier to ask a question to a person in the dark than see the lights in their eyes change when you talk_. Half a dozen times she opens her mouth to answer but no words come until all she can say is the truth.

“Not when I found out about Amelia. But I wondered why, that night on the bathroom floor, and then in the bedroom, the night that came later. I wondered why. You’d never noticed before. I didn’t count, remember?”

“You’ve always counted, and I’ve always noticed you.” Sherlock sits up from the sofa, where he’s intending to stay for the night. “And why did you do it, if you had second thoughts?”

“Haven’t you ever done something you regretted?” Sherlock doesn’t say anything, his silence deafening. Even the great Sherlock Holmes has regrets; Molly can’t think of a single person who doesn’t. She sighs and says, perhaps sounding a little impatient, “Because I wanted you. Because you were sad and hurting even if you didn’t say so, and you were dead. And I thought that having you, letting you have me, even if it was just for a little while, would be better than not at all.” She smiles a sad smile. “Sentiment, you know?”

When he doesn’t say anything, she bids him goodnight and tells him where the extra bedding is. Sherlock bends to kiss her, his mouth finding that point halfway between her mouth and her cheek. It lingers there for a while, a dark curl brushing against Molly’s skin. Her heart’s racing a mile a minute. “Goodnight, Molly.”

###

Molly lies in bed for a long time, her face scrubbed clean of makeup and the train and the conference and Jack and James and all of it. Her sheets are clean and fresh and made with military precision; _John_ , she thinks. _John and Mary and probably Mrs Hudson too._

_If I went to Tennessee and left Amelia here, they would look after her._

_No. I wouldn’t leave my daughter. Amelia will come to Tennessee with me or I won’t go at all._

_If we went to Tennessee, they would look after Sherlock._

When Molly was younger, she read the story of Pandora, the curious woman who opened the box and out sprung everything bad in the world. She feels a little bit like that now, dreaming the possibilities with her eyes open. Her phone’s in her hand and she’s typing as fast as she can, pictures of Tennessee in the fall – _autumn_ , she chastises herself – on the small screen. She’s never been to America before. Rick has, backpacked his way around for three months. He loved it but has never been back. Something happened to him there, she’s sure of it. She can just imagine it, a place where _things happen_ , magical things as big as the sky and as wondrous as the human heart’s capacity for love and self-delusion.

 _Oh Dad_ , she thinks as she turns off her phone and rolls onto her side. _Dad, what should I do?_

 _Do what makes you happy, love._ She can hear it now _._

_What if I don’t know what will make me happy?_

_You’ll know, when you know. God gave us our gut for a reason, and we ignore it at our peril. Your gut, Molls, that’s where your truth lies, not the head or the heart, but the gut, right down there, in the basement where we keep all the things we don’t want other people to know about, hidden amongst the shit where no-one would think to look. That’s where the truth is_.

###

Its early when Molly throws back the covers and walks into her daughter’s bedroom. Early or late, depending on how you look at it. She shouldn’t be, but she is, surprised to find Sherlock in there, wearing his pyjamas and his dressing gown. He’s got long, slim feet, just like everywhere else. He’s holding Amelia, pacing up and down the small room, and stops when he sees her.

“I needed to think, and she was awake anyway.”

“Its alright. I’m off tomorrow so it doesn’t matter if she stays awake.”

“You have the day off from Bart’s?”

Molly shrugs. “Needed to use up my annual leave. A day off in London’s hardly a minibreak to Barcelona, but I suppose it will have to do.”

Sherlock stares at her long and hard, his brain whirring. “Come with me, to my parents’ house.”

“What – tomorrow?”

“Now.” Sherlock pulls out his phone, his fingers flying over the keys. “This time of night, traffic will be light.”

“But-“

“They will have Amelia for the day.” Sherlock looks at her, his face lit only by the small blue screen.

“And what will we do?”

“Whatever you want.”

Molly stares up at him, trying to work out his words. “Really?”

“Really.” Sherlock finishes his message, slips the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown. “I have no data on Molly Hooper, the woman who has had a drink and tells me that she wanted to have sex with a man that wasn’t me, but didn’t because she’s still in love with me. And you were right, I can’t bear it. I need data.”

“I’m not data, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles a small smile, a touch of the lips up towards his eyes. “I will watch Amelia while you get dressed, pack a bag.”

Molly goes to the bathroom, splashes cold water on her face until she feels something real, but when she looks in the mirror she just sees pyjamas and shock at Sherlock’s proposal. _He wants me to go to his parents’ house with him at four o’clock in the morning_.

She splashes more water on her face. When she looks in the mirror again, everything is the same. She cleans her teeth, packs a few items into her toiletry bag. _I only took these out a few hours ago_. Her case is still in the bedroom, half-full of clothes that she didn’t have the energy to unpack. She overpacked, as usual, so leaves the clothes there, adds extra underwear and clothes for Amelia, takes a chance and packs a nice dress, dark green silk with long sleeves that she bought for a winter wedding a few years ago, the first of her university friends to get married. She can remember it now, a quaint little church in Oxfordshire, lots of confetti that mixed with the snow on the ground. She’d been with her university boyfriend, hoping against hope that he’d pop the question.

He never did, of course. He went his way and she went hers and it hurt a lot less than she thought it would. That’s how she knew, she supposed. She saw him sometimes, on the Tube, a city boy earning more money than Mycroft Holmes, probably. She’d lost touch with the couple though; last she heard they were divorced and fighting about child support.

She adds black heels to the bag, wrapped in a carrier bag in case they snag the last decent pair of black tights that she owns. She’s buttoning her favourite jeans when Sherlock comes into her room, wearing the same clothes he wore to meet her at the station. His eyes linger on the slight glimpse of her stomach, the pale flesh that Molly hides away. She catches him looking but he doesn’t look away, just regards her carefully. Amelia gurgles against his shoulder, fingers reaching for his hair. _I know that feeling_ , Molly thinks.

“Not to put a dampener on things, Sherlock, but how are we going to get to your parents’ house?”

There’s a knock at the door. Sherlock makes for the stairs. “Mycroft.”

_Mycroft. Of course. Who else?_

Mycroft has another man in his employ, not the man with nine fingers and the very soft, quiet voice, but another man, with ten fingers (yes, Molly checks) and a very sunny disposition, even at four-thirty in the morning when he should be in bed, but is standing in Dunstable Street with Mycroft Holmes, the keys to a sturdy-looking car in his hands.

“Tank’s full.” He tosses the keys to Sherlock and helps Molly with her bag, gives Amelia’s head a gentle pat. “Watch out for the ring road, there was an accident a few hours back, nasty one, too. Should be cleared by now but you know what the backlog’s like when it starts.”

“Mummy and Daddy know to expect you.” Mycroft’s wearing a long, camel-coloured coat and the tip of his nose is bright red. He gives Molly a warm smile when he sees her and insists on holding Amelia as his employee settles Molly’s bag in the boot. “I’ll be along tomorrow to see my niece while you bore Dr Hooper with your tales of childhood woe. Try not to make it sound so incredibly Dickensian. You know how it upsets Mummy.”

“Thank you for the car, Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s older brother looks positively taken aback at Sherlock’s words; as Molly fastens herself in the passenger seat she’s sure she hears the older brother whisper, “Took you long enough,” In Sherlock’s ear as he slides into the driver’s seat.

###

They drive in silence for a few minutes until Molly reaches for the radio. Its late at night and most of the stations are playing cheesy love songs, but she cycles through the unfamiliar radio until she finds one that she likes.

“Is this okay?” She says to Sherlock’s profile. “I know you like classical but-“

“Its fine.” He turns his head, gives her a small smile. “You have questions.”

“How-“

“In the eyes, the shoulders, the slightly open mouth. People think that I’ve got some kind of magical power; Donovan told me once that I’d made a pact with the Devil.” He rolls his eyes. “Expected a woman of her stature to have left superstition behind years ago, but people do like to cling to things. Sentiment. But your posture, shoulders, body language. You don’t need to ask a question to be questioning.”

Molly closes her mouth, smiles a little. Sherlock notices. “What are you smiling at?”

“You.” Molly stares at his hand, light on the gearstick, and has the most overwhelming urge to touch him. “Earlier, you were you, but you weren’t. You were holding yourself back, not being you, for me. It wasn’t you. Now, when you’re like this, its like you’re really you again.”

“And you prefer that?”

“I prefer you to, well … Nevermind.”

“That’s not what most people say.”

Molly smiles. She’s seen it in action, Sherlock being, well … Sherlock. Most people tell him to piss off. “I know.”

“Your sister called, while you were in Manchester.” Sherlock clears a set of traffic lights and accelerates as they move onto the dual carriageway, snow-covered trees and branches all around. “She doesn’t like me, does she?”

“You deduced that from a phone call?”

“She told me, actually. Called me an utter shit, I think were her exact words.”

“That sounds just like her. I didn’t think you cared what other people think of you?”

“Not people I don’t care about.”

“What about the people you do care about?”

In the darkness, she can see Sherlock’s profile, that long nose and high cheekbones, mouth that sometimes wants to be either kissed or slapped. _I know how you taste_ , she thinks, glancing back to Amelia, asleep in the back seat. _You know how I taste. And Amelia is how we taste, together. Sometimes I can’t believe it_.

“She doesn’t know you, not really.”

“Even the people who know me call me an utter shit. And she left her husband because she was having an affair.”

“How can you possibly-“

“She told me. In-between glasses of chardonnay and insulting me, she did congratulate me on producing a beautiful daughter, although she then pointed out that that was mainly you, not me.”

“She’s drinking too much.”

“Let’s never introduce her to Harry, then.”

They join the ring road and all is quiet, no sign of traffic. There’s glass on the side of the road though, red and white fragments. Molly swallows and wonders who will be on her table on Tuesday. _The last time I made this drive, I was with Sherlock’s parents, scared and alone_.

“You don’t look like your parents.” She blurts out. “Sorry, that sounds terrible. But you don’t. You’re you and they’re just, well … so ordinary.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but there’s mirth in his voice when he says, “We all have our crosses to bear. You resemble your father, a little. Difficult to tell from a picture, sometimes, but across the mouth.”

“My small mouth, you mean?”

Sherlock acknowledges the barb. “But you do look like you father. And your mother. Your sister looks like your mother.”

“I wonder who Amelia will look like. She’s got your hair for sure, my eyes. Did she talk any more while I was away?”

“No.”

“Did she do anything … else?”

Sherlock smiles, pushes the car a little bit faster. “She didn’t write a ground-breaking chemical equation or paradigm-shifting theorem, if that’s what you’re asking. Nor did she write a concerto, solve cancer or put another man on the moon.”

“Right.” Molly sighs. “Good.”

“She’s a happy child, Molly. Much happier than I was. And she’s very well-socialised.” He gives her a smile that’s different to all the others. “You’re a good mother.”

“I don’t feel it.” Molly closes her eyes and talks into the darkness. “Mum made it all look so easy. I feel like I’m barely holding it all together. I look at all these other mums and think, ‘how do you do it?’”

Sherlock accelerates a bit faster, passing other cars like they’re not moving. The roads are clear but there’s snow all around and a flurry comes from nowhere as they take the exit to his parents’ house, dawn threatening. The sky’s purple now, dark, regal purple rather than inky black, but it feels darker here, away from London, darker but more peaceful. Manchester wasn’t peaceful. It was chaotic and exuberant and so different from London, but it hadn’t been peaceful. In fact, Molly can’t remember the last time she felt true peace. Since Sherlock’s fall? Since before her dad died? When was the last time she felt true peace?

“We went on holiday once, the five of us.” Molly’s voice sounds small and tired. Her eyes are closed, but that makes it easier, to talk. “Up north. We complained the whole drive: the weather was rubbish, are we there yet, can we stop and get some chips – everything. We stayed in this campsite that flooded, it was a disaster. But there was this day when we went hiking and the sun came out and I was standing on this rock and all I could see was land, grass and trees and everything.” She wipes away a tear that she didn’t know she had shed. “It was the last time I felt peaceful. Really peaceful, I mean. Dad got sick not long after that. The first time, I mean. Looking back, that’s the last time I was really peaceful.”

She falls asleep just as they come off the motorway for the last time, six lanes giving way to narrow country roads, sometimes down to one lane with a little bump cut out for cars coming the other way. Molly smells privet hedges and fresh snow, hears the brush of leaves against the windows and mirrors when the roads become a strip barely big enough to accommodate the car. She half expects to end up in a farmer’s field, lost in a flurry of snowy roads that even Sherlock’s navigational prowess couldn’t solve. He works fine in London, where he can read the street maps and signs and navigate the Tube and taxis, but what about out here? She’s got a nightmarish vision of sleeping in the car while Sherlock digs them out of a snowdrift. But then there’s a cold hand on her shoulder and Sherlock’s voice in her ear and she knows that she should never underestimate Sherlock Holmes.

“Molly. Molly, wake up, we’re here.”

The Holmes’ house is just as she remembered, picture-perfect and covered in a dusting of crisp white flakes. Mark and Cora wear flannel pyjamas and heavy jumpers and fuss around while Sherlock removes Amelia from the car with minimal fuss and absolutely no help from his parents.

“Not that we’re not delighted to see you, dear,” Cora says as she settles them in the kitchen and puts the kettle on the stove to boil. “But is everything alright? You haven’t got to go away again, have you? Mycroft didn’t tell us very much.”

“No, Mummy.” Sherlock’s found the biscuit tin, little heavenly homemade bites full of fruit. They look like something Molly’s mum would have made during Christmas and her mouth waters just at the sight of them. Sherlock takes two and devours them in one bite apiece, his face a frown. “You’ve cut down on the sugar in the biscuits. And the butter.”

“Your dad was getting fat. You will too, you know.”

“Comes to us all, Sherlock.” Mark presses a kiss to Molly’s cheek, holds his granddaughter close. “Can’t expect to eat and live the way you do and not pack on a few pounds.”

“I get plenty of exercise.”

Cora finds the teapot in a cupboard and sets it on the counter with a rather excessive amount of force. “Chasing down criminals and falling off of buildings is not exercise, Sherlock. I hope you won’t still be doing that when you’re daughter’s older. Or that she’ll be doing it with you.”

Sherlock’s voice is icy cold when he says, “My daughter will be whatever she wants to be. Whatever she’s happy doing.”

“Its really nice of you to have us at such short notice.” Molly reaches for a biscuit because God knows, at this point she feels like she needs it. _New Years’ Resolutions don’t count if they’re broken outside the M25. I read that somewhere, I’m sure. Fine print, obviously_. “I hope we aren’t an imposition.”

“Never.” Cora beams. “We’ve made up the spare room for you, the bed might be a bit cold but we can make you a hot water bottle and you’ll soon warm up. It’s a bit small, but you’ll be able to squeeze in-“

“Molly will have the bed.” Sherlock steeples his hands together. “I will sleep on the sofa.”

“Oh Sherlock.” His mum looks almost disapproving. “Its not like we don’t know that you two are close – you’ve got a daughter!”

“Mycroft said that you two had sorted things out.” Mark just looks confused; Molly wants the ground to swallow her up.

“Sorting, Dad. Current, present tense.”

“We’ll manage just fine, Cora.” Molly gives Sherlock a small, brief smile. “Really, its no trouble.”

They settle Amelia upstairs, in the same room where Molly slept, the last time she was there. Its like she’s only been gone for a few hours rather than months, the same wooden beams and book boxes, the child’s violin packed away in the corner. Sherlock’s eyes linger on the case and for a moment Molly wonders if he’s going to open the case, but instead he just stares at the bed, the rest of the room, his eyes eventually settling on the view outside.

“Sun’s coming up.”

“So it is.” Molly follows his gaze, to the fields beyond, the black-purple-pink hues that billow through the sky, rippling against the clouds. “Can’t remember the last time I saw a sunrise that wasn’t in London.”

“There’s a spot not far from here where the view’s better.”

###

They leave Amelia with Cora and Mark, and Sherlock takes Molly down the path, towards the stream, a few feet from the water’s edge. She wears her coat and his, the sleeves way past her fingertips. He’s got a scarf on and little else but his hand is warm when it reaches for Molly’s to help her cross a felled tree. Despite the sunrise its dark outside, much darker than Molly’s seen, living in London, and at times its like Sherlock becomes the darkness around him, his hair and suit jacket slipping into the nothingness ahead of her. But then they’ll pass a patch where the hedge and the trees thin out and the purple light hits the side of his face and Molly remembers the last time she was here. _Oh yes_ , she thinks, pulling his coat around her just a little bit more. _He really does look like a Byronic hero_.

They walk and walk, the incline slight at first but rising until Molly’s panting, and sweating beneath her two coats and a jumper. But then the ground drops off and Molly can see a valley below, peaks and troughs and streams and brooks, little hedgerows and tiny clusters of houses with red roofs, and covering it all a white blanket of snow that’s pink and purple in the sunrise, gentle orange ripples in the sky.

“Wow.” Molly says, slightly breathless, although she’s not sure whether its from the walk or what she sees.

“Thought you’d like it.” Sherlock leans against a tree, arms folded. He smiles and its like looking at him twenty years younger and Molly’s heart leaps. _If I had met you at university, you would have ruined me then. I don’t know whether I feel relieved that we didn’t meet sooner, or disappointed that I didn’t get to see you when you were younger._

“We should go back.” Molly says after a few minutes. “Amelia-“

“Will be fine, with my parents.” Sherlock stares at Molly. “Let’s watch the sunrise, together.”

So they do.

TBC


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A big shout-out once again to all those who have read and reviewed this story. It means so much to know that I have the best reviewers and the best readers  Inspired by Michael’s Brook’s incredible score from The Perks of Being a Wallflower and Ella Henderson, ‘Yours’ and of course, the waltz that Sherlock composes for John and Mary’s wedding.

Molly and Sherlock sit on the cold ground and watch the sun come up. They use Sherlock’s coat as a blanket to sit on; he doesn’t seem to mind. The wind blows and its cold, but Molly doesn’t feel it. She watches the way the wind ruffles Sherlock’s curls, the way the sunrise bounces orange and pink lights off his face. He’s still, head slightly turned, cheek grazing her forehead where she’s resting her head against his shoulder. If he’s bothered by the closeness he doesn’t say anything, just let’s her be close, be in his orbit. _I am Pluto, and Sherlock is the sun, and he is so warm and in this moment I don’t think I’ve ever felt peace like this_.

“I didn’t think you’d like sunrises, Sherlock.”

“Got used to them, in Cambridge. There’s a place there, a few miles out, fields and trees and these long grasses, burrs that stick to your jacket. Insomniac’s Field, they’d call it. Used to collect the people who couldn’t sleep.” His mouth moves; he’s smiling. “Another collection of misfits, as you’d call them. But you could go there, watch the sunrise.”

“Sounds nice.”

“If you like that sort of thing. Got a bit dull, after a while.”

Molly’s hand rests on his arm, lopped through his. His hand beckons closer, fingers curled into a very loose fist on his thigh. _If I was to slide my hand down, take his fingers close to mine, what would he do?_

“Now you’ve brought me here, what is it that you intend to do with me?”

Sherlock turns his head just a little bit more, to look down on her. “No idea.”

His breath is warm against her skin. He smells faintly of mint. _He’s cleaned his teeth_. Molly’s tongue darts out to wet her mouth; Sherlock watches, and for a split second she thinks that he might kiss her.

“I thought you planned everything down to the last detail.”

“Come, Molly. You know my methods. You know I only plan my own death. Which I would never have been able to pull off, without you.” He sighs a little, his mouth pressed tight together. “I’ll never be able to thank you, for what you did for me. What you did for John and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, even if they’ll never know it.”

“I didn’t do everything. Mycroft-“

“Mycroft helped. But without you … they would never have believed it for as long as they did, without you. You gave me enough time to make them safe.”

“Sherlock.” Molly takes his hand and squeezes, and Sherlock Holmes and the world around him falls silent. “Let’s just watch the sunrise together, alright?”

They sit and watch until Molly begins to fall asleep. They walk back with hands still clasped, two figures as one in the early light. This feels like a dream, Molly thinks, a beautiful dream that I’ll wake up from and I’ll be in my house, and my bed will be cold.

“Tell me something.” Sherlock murmurs as they take a shortcut through the field, snowy save for the tracks made by super-keen ramblers.

Her dad always wanted to be a rambler until Molly pointed out that the only place he ever rambled was to the corner shop for his paper. He always used to laugh at that, then pat her hand. _One day, Molly, you and me will ramble all over the place. We’ll go up and down the coasts, see the rest of England, get out of London. You don’t see the real England until you’re out of London_. It startles her, how easily the tears come forward, just remembering that pat on the hand, that daily ramble to the corner shop, and she’s glad for Sherlock’s question, even if her voice catches when she replies, “Tell you what?”

“Anything. Give me data on Molly Hooper.”

Molly looks at him, striding through the field. He’s wearing his coat again, even though its probably damp, and there’s a bit of snow in his dark curls and he’s exactly like how she envisaged him, when she was last at his parents’ house. _Bryonic_. His cheeks are flushed, almost the same colour as his mouth, his hand chilly against hers. _If he were to touch me, he’d give me goosebumps_.

“What do you want to know?”

“Something useful. Something relevant.”

Molly laughs. “Well that’s a matter of opinion. Tell me something useful about you. Something relevant.”

“You already know everything relevant about me. You have more data than you can process.”

Molly sighs. “We could just talk, you know.”

“Inefficient. This is better.”

“What, you barking questions at me?”

“I do not bark.” Sherlock looks at her, uncertain. “Do I?”

“Like a dog.” Molly puts her hand on Sherlock’s arm, slows his manic pace. “That’s what couples do, Sherlock, when they’re getting to know each other. They talk, about their likes and dislikes, their habits and quirks, the things that make them tick, what they’re proud of and ashamed of. What makes us human.”

“You sound like John.”

“Well, you wanted data on me, that’s the way to get it. I’m not complicated. Just ask. Whatever you want to know, I’ll answer.”

Sherlock stares at her, trying to work her out. Molly swallows and prays that he doesn’t ask anything too intrusive. But what the hell: they’ve got a child together and she helped him cover up his death. What’s the worst thing that he could possibly ask?

“Alright.” She says, sensing panic. “How about this: we’ll go back to your parents’ house and get changed, and then you, me and Amelia will go out for breakfast and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. How does that sound?”

###

The house is alive and rumbling by the time they find their way back to the house. Anthea is drinking tea from a flask and gives them a wave, declines Sherlock’s offer to come inside for toast.

“Best not.” She doesn’t glance up from her phone. “Your brother’s in there and he’s in one of his moods.”

“Why’s that – foiled another coup again?”

“Worse.” Anthea grins at Molly. “Amelia was sick on his favourite shirt.”

Molly hides a smile behind her hand but Sherlock laughs, pushes open the gate with a flourish. “Finally, she does something useful!”

Anthea shakes her head as Molly bids her goodbye. “How the bloody hell do you put up with him?”

Molly shrugs. “He improves, when you get to know him.”

“I’ve known him for almost ten years.”

“Well, sometimes.”

Mycroft and Cora are in the kitchen when Molly and Sherlock come through the door and stomp early morning snow off their shoes. Cora’s at the sink, scrubbing, Mycroft hovering. Amelia sits in her his chair trying to eat a bowl of porridge with her fingers.

“Not like that, darling.” Molly swoops in and removes the bowl before her daughter can do anymore damage. “We’ve talked about this.”

Amelia looks at her mother and for a second looks so much like Sherlock that its all Molly can do not to laugh. “No, Mummy. No.”

Sherlock grins at Mycroft. “Nice t-shirt, Mycroft. One of Daddy’s?”

“Do be quiet, Sherlock. Mummy, you need to use more soap-“

“Mycroft Mark Holmes, I have been cleaning shirts for almost sixty years.” Cora slaps her son’s knuckles with a wooden spoon. “If you think that you can do any better, you’re welcome to try. Did you have a nice walk, Molly dear?”

“Lovely thanks.” Molly can smell tea and toast, wonders if there’s any left. Offers of breakfast aside, she’s absolutely starving. “Sherlock took me to see the sunrise.”

“Oh, you know Mycroft, Mummy.” Sherlock takes a seat on the other side of Amelia and reaches for the newspaper. “Why get involved when you can be an armchair general? Fieldwork isn’t his thing.”

“I’m so sorry, Mycroft.” Molly says. “She can eat properly, I know she can.”

“That’s alright, Amelia.” Sherlock shows his daughter a picture in the paper and his eyes dance when she laughs. “Mycroft brings out the gag reflex in everyone.”

“Its just a shirt, Mycroft.” Mark appears bearing a shovel and trowel, snow in his hair. Its curling around his neck a little and when he kisses Cora’s nose and nuzzles her neck, Molly sees Sherlock there, thirty years from now. “Much bigger things going on in the world than a bit of sick on a shirt. And besides, when you were younger you once washed a whole fireplace full of coal.”

Sherlock erupts into laughter, which becomes even louder when Amelia joins in, bouncing up and down in her high chair with such force that Molly fears she’s going to tip the whole thing over.

“And I don’t know what you’re laughing at, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” Cora says, raising her eyebrow at her youngest son. “You were right there helping him. Filthy you were, the pair of you. Ruined your clothes, and our carpet.”

“Sherlock and I want to go out for breakfast.” Molly finds some fresh porridge for Amelia and to her horror and delight, the little girl starts to eat it with a spoon, calmly putting it in her mouth and smiling. She doesn’t dare look at either Sherlock or Mycroft. “Is there anywhere close that’s nice?”

“That pub across the way does nice food.” Cora says with a smile. “Don’t think they start serving until lunchtime, though.”

“The café in town does nice breakfasts.” Mark adds. “They’ve got a window that looks out onto the fields. No animals this time of year, but pretty enough.”

“We’ll find somewhere.” Sherlock folds the newspaper and ushers Molly towards the stairs. “Come on, let’s not dawdle.”

“Its not even eight o’clock.” Molly protests, but Sherlock takes her arm and leads her upstairs, shows her where everything is.

“No time like the present. There’s no towels, there used to be towels here, a whole cupboard full of towels. Mummy, where are the spare towels!”

“Laid them out on your bed, dear!”

Sherlock sighs. “I miss Mrs Hudson.”

Molly takes the towels from the bed; they smell like summer and are so soft she bets that they’re as old as she is. “Mrs Hudson’s your landlady, not your housekeeper.”

“Semantics. Thank you, for coming here.” Sherlock takes her into the bathroom, shuts the door and shows her how to use the shower.

“They’re Amelia’s grandparents. Of course I’m going to come.”

Sherlock sighs, looks at her. _He’s put on his dressing gown_ , Molly thinks. The silk presses against her skin. _When did he do that?_ “I will be better at this. Really, I will.”

“Sherlock.” Molly takes his hands, threads their fingers together. _This all feels like a dream_. “I just want you to be you. I meant what I said, back when I told you I was pregnant: I didn’t expect anything from you.”

“No.” Sherlock looks down at their conjoined hands. “But I realised that I expected it of myself.”

Molly smiles and kisses his cheek. “Maybe I really should go away more often.”

Sherlock smiles a little, reaches for the door. He’s halfway out when he turns to her and says, “If its all the same to you, I’d rather you didn’t. It would break Amelia’s heart. And mine.”

###

Molly showers in water that oscillates between hot and tepid, strong jets that almost pin her to the other side of the shower stall. The shampoo comes out of her hair with bruising force and by the time she’s done, she’s so refreshed and invigorated she feels like she could run a marathon.

_I’d rather you didn’t. It would break Amelia’s heart. And mine._

_Oh Sherlock. Why did you have to choose now, of all times to decide to tell me that?_

She hasn’t decided what to do about the Body Farm yet. The brochure’s still in her handbag, beautiful glossy pages of smiling pathologists in very white lab coats with very white teeth, posing with a pipette, or serious-looking men and women crouched over a body looking like they’d stepped off the set of CSI. It’s a world that screams possibility and opportunity, interspersed with gorgeous scenery, mountain ranges and even something to do with Elvis (Memphis is only a six-hour drive, the brochure informs her cheerily. _Only six hours_ , Molly thinks. _I could fly to New York in seven_ ). She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t tempted. The train journey back had made her think a bit more rationally, or if not rationally, about reality. _What would her mum say, and Rick and Sally? What about her job at Bart’s, Amelia’s schooling? W_

_hat about Sherlock? Would he let me take her out of the country? He isn’t on the birth certificate but Mycroft is his brother; would he let me take our daughter halfway around the world for one year, or three, or five?_

_He left you for eighteen months_ , a little voice says inside of her. _He left you with no guarantee that he was coming back. I_

 _t isn’t the same_ , Molly furiously wrings excess water out of her hair, wraps herself in a towel. _It isn’t the same. Things are different now. Before, it was about me and him, but it isn’t now. Now its about me and him and Amelia. Could I do that to them both, now that they know each other? Oh Dad, why aren’t you here so I can talk to you?_

There’s no sign of Sherlock when Molly comes into the spare room, but she can hear his voice downstairs, bickering with Mycroft about something. Amelia’s crying, she can hear that. She doesn’t like it when people raise their voices. The mother in her wants to go downstairs and make it stop, but Sherlock’s there, and he’s capable. Sure enough, the crying quietens down after a few minutes, only to start up again as soon as Molly’s found some clean socks and dripped water onto her jeans. _Great_.

She dresses in her warmest jumper and jeans, a shirt and walking boots. She can’t find a hairdryer but Cora will probably have one. Her makeup is tucked away in nooks and crannies all around her suitcase, but she finds enough to put on her face and hide the circles under her eyes. She looks tired. The bed has never looked more enticing and Molly knows from experience that its more than comfortable. She touches the duvet, old and soft like the towels.

_Mycroft told his parents that we had sorted ourselves out. Sorting, Sherlock had corrected. They think we’re together. Are we? I don’t know what we are. I don’t know what I want us to be. Oh Dad, when did it get so hard?_

When she comes downstairs all seems to have been forgiven; Mycroft is reading Amelia the headlines and there’s no sign of Sherlock, but the shower is running upstairs. Mark’s in his garden, Cora in her office, a small hairdryer laid out on the table.

“Starting her early, Mycroft?”

“She seemed to enjoy it, while you were away. And besides, they’re more imaginative than any fairy story.” Mycroft looks up from the paper and gives Molly a smile. Even in a t-shirt covered in printed dandelions and spades, he exudes authority. “I have some time off, I thought that I would spend it with Amelia, if that is acceptable to you?”

“Of course it is. You’re her uncle.”

“I thought it might give you and my brother a chance to talk. He is trying, as I’m sure you’re aware. In more ways than one, of course.”

“We are what we are.” Molly’s stomach growls, she’s so hungry. “Isn’t that what you said to him? I’d never want him to be anything other than who he is, Mycroft. I love him enough to want that.”

“My brother seems to have gotten it into his head that caring for people is an advantage. I blame John Watson, but you were there long before he was, so I suppose it’s you I should be blaming instead of him. There’s a nice place not too far from here, if you’re interested. Their lasagne isn’t quite as good as the one we had, but their breakfasts are quite lovely.” Mycroft writes the address on the back of a business card that isn’t his, slides it across the table to her. She doesn’t recognise any of the roads but is sure that Sherlock will. _The Wheatsheaf_. She wants to smell the card, see if the card smells like a fresh field.

Sherlock emerges sometime later in a red shirt and a black suit, his shoes polished to a high shine. His hair’s still damp and a mess of curls that twist in the light like his head is full of snakes.

“Mycroft suggested this place.” Molly pushes the card towards him. “It sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock stares at the card, something inside his mouth bulging. _Is he grinding his teeth?_ He tucks the card into his pocket and then their coats are in his hands. “Of course he did.”

Molly looks from one Holmes brother to the other. “Is there a problem? We could always just go out later if-”

“No.” Sherlock smoothes his jacket, gives Molly something that could pass for a smile. “No, there’s no problem.”

“Don’t hurry back.” Mycroft smiles from the table. “Amelia and I are going to talk about the crises in the Middle East, and shan’t want to be disturbed.”

Sherlock calls a goodbye to his parents and then they’re out of the house, up the path and towards the car. Mycroft’s car is gone, Anthea nowhere in sight. _I hope she hasn’t frozen to death_.

“Is your brother shagging Anthea?” Molly asks as she buckles himself in.

Sherlock looks at her with thinly-veiled amusement. “Come, Molly. My brother wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if his life depended on it.”

“John said something very similar, once. Right about when he deduced that you were Amelia’s father. She wasn’t Amelia yet, though. I was still pregnant.”

“There’s hope for him yet.”

“For someone who says that caring isn’t an advantage, Mycroft adores Amelia.”

“He’ll adore her even more when she’s old enough to really benefit from his bulging bank account. Something to nip in the bud, I think.” Sherlock reverses the car in a neat, precise line. _Its so strange, seeing him do mundane things_. When Molly thinks of Sherlock she thinks of a lab, a laptop, jumping off a building or playing mental Russian roulette with a serial killer. She doesn’t think of him making tea, or driving a car. _Its strange, to see him this way. Maybe that’s what he thinks about me_.

Sherlock drives them up narrow country lanes, past empty, snowy fields and privet hedges. Its like a picture postcard, and Molly says as much.

“Dull. Boring. Nothing going on.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Molly looks out the window with a smile. _I miss nature, living in London_. “I bet all kinds of bodies are buried around here. Proverbially and literally.” She turns her head to look at Sherlock, not at all surprised to find his eyes gleaming with the promise of a case.

“Do you really think so?”

Molly laughs. “Haven’t you ever thought about it? How to commit the perfect murder?”

“Of course I have.”

“A farm’s where I’d do it.” Molly watches one roll past, wonders just what happens in there. “Pigs’ll eat anything, and you could burn what’s left. No body, no evidence. People get convicted without a body but its hard.”

When her eyes move back to Sherlock, he’s watching her very strangely, a mixture of emotions on his face. If she didn’t know better she’d say it was lust, but that would be so like her and Sherlock, wouldn’t it? Planning a murder as foreplay? There’s definitely something wrong with the pair of them.

Sherlock breaks his observations to go around a roundabout. “Let’s just hope that you don’t decide to change professions, Molly.”

Molly shakes her head. “People can be so cruel to each other, but so stupid too.”

“People are stupid. Unbelievably so. All with their fingers on those little red buttons, too.”

Molly smiles, watches him watching her. _It feels like we’re on a date again_. “Donovan warned me about you, when I first went to work at Bart’s.”

“Ah, Sally. Never lets you down, does she? What did she call me that time? A freak? Psychopath?”

“Both, actually. She told me that one day, solving a murder wouldn’t be enough for you, that one day they’d get a call and it would be you who had done it.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “She told John the same thing. Same bloody thing, three years apart. Doesn’t she have the brainpower to think up anything more original?”

“I never understood why she hated you so much. Anderson, yes, but not her.”

“Tried to jump me at the Christmas party, a year before you started.” Sherlock takes a right hand turn and the road is so narrow that they just miss colliding with a stone wall. “Lestrade made me go, threatened to cut off my cases unless I did. Decided I needed to get out and meet people, ghastly idea. Donovan had had one to many Bacardi Breezers and decided to jump me as I was getting my coat. Never been able to eat anything that tasted like pineapple since.”

Molly’s sure that she needs to roll up her jaw and her tongue and put it back in her mouth. “Donovan had a crush on you? That’s why she hates you?”

Sherlock looks at her and smiles in a way that’s not decent. “Well I did also make her look like an idiot almost every time we met, but that wasn’t hard. Didn’t even need to get dressed to do that. Think turning her down was just the icing on the cake, although she’s been scrubbing Anderson’s floors pretty much ever since, so she can’t have found me that interesting.”

“People do strange things, when they’re lonely. She called you a freak, while you were away. Said she couldn’t understand why everyone was so upset after you died.” Molly looks at her hands and smiles at the memory. “I told her to get out of the morgue.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever thrown anyone out of the morgue before.”

“You came close, a few times.”

“I know. We’re here.” Sherlock parks the car and stares at the building ahead, red stone with a slate roof, smoke puffing out of the chimney. All around it are fields, fields and fields, a cluster of houses right on the horizon where the sky meets land. _I can see these fields full of wheat in the summer_ , Molly thinks, _gold and brown, shimmering when the wind blows and they move together. Its absolutely beautiful_. She walks towards the main entrance but Sherlock shakes his head, guides her around to the side, where there’s a green wooden door with a black knocker, a park bench to the right and a dog bowl full of ice on the left. He knocks once, then twice, and once again. There’s barking behind the door, claws on tile, followed by a voice that sounds old. Then the door opens and a man appears behind it.

“Sherlock Holmes!” He’s older than Sherlock and Molly, probably Mark’s age, with a spry handshake and very clear brown eyes, a little crown of grey hair on his head. In that moment, he reminds Molly of her dad. “What a surprise!”

“Jim!” Sherlock lets himself be hugged by the older man, even manages to put his arms around him. “Allow me to introduce Dr Molly Hooper.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Molly tries to extend her arm but the dog behind the door is out in the yard, a flash of red and long hair. _A Setter_ , Molly thinks as the dog rubs its wet nose against her. _A Red Setter. Oh._ She remembers her and Cora’s conversation the last time she was here. _The large puppy litter. The owners that couldn’t feed them all. Redbeard_. Suddenly the bulging in Sherlock’s jaw makes more sense now. _Its painful, for him to come here, but he brought me anyway_. The thought makes her happy and sad, all at the same time.

They’re ushered into a kitchen made from terracotta tile and red brick on the walls, a roaring fire in the hearth and a long wooden table with matching benches. Molly’s coat is taken and hung up and she sits and warms herself by the fire, a mug of tea in her hands while Jim and his wife – Ruth - fuss about them both.

“You’re opening later today.” Sherlock sits opposite Molly at the bench, his tea close to his elbow. The Setter is called Ruby and she hasn’t left him alone since they arrived, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems quite happy to stroke the dog’s ears, feel its silky hair beneath his fingers.

“Weather’s bad, people won’t come until the roads clear. You here for the weekend?”

Sherlock smiles, dips his head. “Just a few days, away from London.”

“Not like you, to want to leave the hustle and bustle. Never liked the peace and quiet when you were younger!”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to Molly. “Molly’s been away at a conference in Manchester; I thought some time out of the city might be good for her.”

Jim and Ruth fuss about them both as if they’re their own children, asking about Molly’s job, her work, although they seem rather well-versed in her life to be asking out of anything other than politeness. They aren’t surprised when she tells them what she does, nor is Molly surprised when Ruth lets slip that she is the first woman Sherlock’s ever brought here – his parents’ house, here, anywhere. Neither Sherlock nor Molly mention Amelia, but then Ruth and Jim bring a picture from the mantelpiece and her heart lurches. I remember that picture. She’s only just on it, face turned away because she felt fat and ugly, still swollen from pregnancy. _Nonsense, Molly dear_ , Mycroft had said as he snapped a picture of Amelia on his phone to send to his parents.

 _Forget British government_ , Molly thinks as she stares at the picture. _Mycroft should become a matchmake_ r.

“You didn’t bring her with you?” Ruth and Jim look so hopeful that it almost breaks Molly’s heart.

“She’s with my parents at the moment.” Sherlock looks at Molly, out of the corner of his eye.

“She’s beautiful, really something. Looks so much like the pair of you.” Ruth looks at the picture and looks sad. When Molly glances around the room, she can’t see any other pictures of children, no school photos or graduation pictures, no dreadful prom photos or embarrassing toddler pictures. Then she looks at Jim, looking at Sherlock. _They didn’t have children of their own_. _He was the closest, that they came, this boy at their table who became a man_.

“He used to hide here every time they’d come and stay in their cottage.” Ruth puts the picture away and makes them breakfast, bacon and beans, sausage and toast and lashings of brown sauce. “Hide here and read his books, play with the dogs. Think you would have stayed the night with them in the kennels, if you could have.”

“Much better than going home and listening to my brother.”

“Hush. Your brother’s always meant well.”

“Not the same as doing well, though.”

They finish their breakfasts and Jim goes to open the pub with Ruth, and Molly insists on doing the dishes or, in the very least, stacking the dishwasher.

“Your mum told me about Redbeard.” She says as she puts plates and cups into the dishwasher. “He came from here, didn’t he?”

Sherlock pauses his own clean-up to stroke Ruby. “She must be his niece, or grandniece. My first foray into sentiment ended with a sharp needle in a vet’s office.”

“My dad liked animals.” Molly can’t fit anything else in the dishwasher, so she runs the cycle and washes her hands. “Horses, mainly. We used to have a dog, almost broke my heart when she died. I used to want to be a vet until then, when I realised I couldn’t bear to see animals in pain. I suppose I do better with the already dead, than the living.”

Sherlock smiles. “I wanted to be a pirate. Quite the pair we would have made.”

They walk Ruby around the field surrounding The Wheatsheaf. Punters are arriving, slipping and sliding in the snow, but they’re both surefooted as they walk through tall grass and dead stalks. Ruby rolls around in the snow, begs Sherlock to throw a ball for her. He doesn’t oblige, preferring to lean against the wooden fence with Molly and look out at the world around them.

“Your jaw twitched, when you saw the address.”

“Mycroft needs to learn to mind his own business.”

“But you still brought me here.” Molly looks up at him. “Even though it was uncomfortable for you.”

Sherlock’s quiet for a long time, fingers resting lightly on the fence, tapping a beat out, leather against wood. He’s looking at something far in the distance when he says, “Redbeard was the first thing I really loved. John taught me the wonders of friendship. You and Amelia-“

Molly kisses him.

His mouth is warm despite the cold and like her he tastes like tea and brown sauce, His hair is still damp at the roots but it doesn’t matter when she slides her fingers through the strands, eventually curling around his neck. _How long has it been since they did this? A year? Longer?_ She can’t remember but now, here, standing in this field in Surrey, snow in her hair, Molly just wants to kiss him, everything else be damned.

Sherlock’s hands come up to her face, cupping her jaw, his thumbs brushing against her mouth. His coat comes out to wrap around them both, pulling Molly deeper into his warmth. He kisses her like they’re old lovers finally reunited, missed and hot and needy and she’s melting, falling, slipping into him. Finally they come apart, the air misting when they breathe out. Sherlock stays where he is, though, hands on Molly’s face, touching her nose and her mouth.

“I should bring you to see my parents more often.”

Molly smiles against his mouth. “Thank you, for bringing me here, for showing me this. I know how hard it is for you to do this. I appreciate, that you’re trying.”

“I can tell.”

“Let’s not go back tonight.” Molly whispers, wrapping her arms around his waist, wanting more than anything to kiss him again. “I have more leave, I can call Mike. Let’s just … let’s just stay here a little bit longer. Would that be alright?”

Sherlock smiles and kisses her again. “Only if you find me this farm where you intend to commit the perfect murder.”

###

They stay with the Holmes’ for another four days. Mike’s not surprised when Molly calls him up on the Monday afternoon and tells him that she’s taking the rest of the week off; _does he know?_ She’s sure he does. Either way, she can hear him smile when he happily agrees, promises to make sure the paperwork is filed with HR.

On the second day, Molly ventures outside to call Mary, wrapped in a coat to protect against the snow that fell while she and Sherlock slept, curled around each other in their pyjamas, Amelia between them.

“How’s he coping, out in the wilds of Surrey with nothing but you and his parents for company? He hasn’t found a murder to solve yet, has he?”

“Alright, I think.” Molly’s standing in the Holmes’ back garden, shivering against the cold despite her coat and gloves. Its late morning and the sun is watery and too bright in the sky. “How are the wedding plans?”

“Oh, you know, down to the wire like always. Can’t believe we’re getting married the same week Amelia turns one! Of course, you dragging the best man off to his parents’ house for illicit sex isn’t helping.”

“There’s no sex!” Molly exclaims, and her voice carries a little. _Oh shit. I hope this parents didn’t hear that_. “And he dragged me here, not the other way around.”

“But you’re the one who put in for the extra days of leave, aren’t you?” Mary sounds smug, like she’s won a bet or something. _I bet John and Mary have been taking bets about this, Lestrade too_. “He missed you, you know, while you were away. Something terrible. Think it did him the world of good, shook his world up a bit. He realised that you wouldn’t always be there, and I don’t know what you said to him when you got back but its lit a fire under his arse.”

“I told him that I met other men that I wanted to sleep with.”

Mary laughs, a deep laugh that comes right from her belly. “I bet the great Sherlock Holmes didn’t like that one bit. Not only can he not stand not knowing something but he can’t stand being beaten. All about the ego with men, isn’t it? So did you sleep with any of them?”

Molly thinks of Jack and her stomach flutters. “No. I wanted to. I thought about it. If he had asked, I would have. He looked like it would have been good, too.”

“Well why didn’t you ask, then? We’re modern women now, Molly!”

Molly sighs. “You know why.”

Mary’s voice is soft when she says, “Course I know why, love.”

“I blame Mycroft.” Molly wipes away tears that she didn’t know she’d been crying. “Playing bloody matchmaker.”

“He cares about you. And Sherlock. And he absolutely adores Amelia.”

“He says that caring was a disadvantage.”

“Bollocks. We all know why Sherlock jumped off that roof.”

Mary sighs. “John misses him. He won’t say anything, but he does.”

“Things still not right between them?”

“No, they’re fine, but we were in Baker Street yesterday, getting more of his things and he sat in his chair and he looked so sad. It’s a big change.”

“But a good one. You two love each other and you want to build a life together – that’s a good change!”

"Perhaps not the only good change?”

Molly stares back towards the house, the smoke puffing happily out of the chimney. She can hear violin music and see a tall head of dark curls in the window. Sherlock spies her there and smiles, and she waves back.

“Perhaps not.”

She stomps her feet when she comes back inside, sure her nose is running. _Attractive, Molly_. Sherlock puts the violin aside when he sees her come in, lets it rest on the stand. There’s sheet music next to him, in the bay window. _He’s composing_.

“Writing anything nice?”

“A waltz for John and Mary’s wedding.” Sherlock’s got his phone hooked up to a speaker and he helps her off with her coat and snowy shoes, his hands held out to her. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Oh. Sure.”

The music fills the air like a fine wine, rich and full-bodied, silencing every other sound in the house. Everything else falls away as Molly listens, tears glistening in her eyes. She can feel the emotion, the happiness and sadness, joy and tears, everything that is Sherlock and John and John and Mary in the music. _It isn’t just for John and Mary_ , she thinks as Sherlock comes closer. _Its for John and Sherlock too. Change comes to us all, eventually_.

“Its … its beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Sherlock offers his hand to her. “Allow me to test it out.”

“I .. uh … you mean dance?”

“It’s a waltz. Of course I mean dance.”

Molly blushes. “I’m not a very good dancer.”

“Then it’s a good job I’m excellent.”

Sherlock takes Molly’s hands in his, positions them just so. His back is straighter than usual, his hand light on her waist, the other clasping hers gently but surely.

“Just follow my lead.” He murmurs into her ear.

He takes a step forwards and Molly mimics him, her eyes on her feet. God, she’s rubbish at this and it shows. Someone told her once that having an excellent dance partner made you look better but to her its just highlighting how crap she is.

“Relax, Molly.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just rubbish, I’ve never done this before-“

“We can practice, before the wedding.” Sherlock’s watching her; she can feel his eyes on the side of her face. “If you would accompany me.”

“Are you asking me to be your date?”

“A colloquial way of putting it, but yes.”

The music’s repeating itself, a few precious minutes to steal away into another time and they’re still dancing, Sherlock moving them perfectly in time.

“I feel like I should be in a gown in a Jane Austen novel.” Molly smiles. “Its beautiful music, Sherlock, really.”

He’s watching her. “You’ve been crying. Why have you been crying?”

“The music-“ 

"No, you were crying before you came in.” He stops their movement. “Mary upset you, on the phone.”

“How did you know it was Mary?”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing.” Molly shakes her head. “Nothing, its silly.”

“No, its not. She’s meant to be your friend.”

“She is my friend. She was just teasing me.”

“Teasing shouldn’t usually end in tears. Not from friends.”

“Sherlock, its fine.”

“Tell me.” Sherlock’s very still. “Please. Tell me.”

Molly sighs. _He’s right. This isn’t going to work unless you’re honest with him_. “She asked me why I didn’t sleep with any of the men I met in Manchester, even though I wanted to.”

“And what did you say?”

Molly swallows, makes herself look him in the eye. “I told her that she knew why.”

Sherlock nods ever so slightly. The hand that’s on her waist moves up higher, to her shoulder, lightly squeezing. He leans down and his breath is a hot caress when he says, “My parents have taken Amelia to Guildford for the day. The whole day.”

She leads him upstairs, sure that he can feel the way her whole body shakes. They leave the music on, the notes lilting up into the spare bedroom, even when Molly closes the door. She leans against it for a minute, watching him. He takes his phone from his pocket, turns it off and places it on the table, beside the bed. His jacket follows suit, draped across the old music stand he had as a child.

Molly’s wearing a blouse with buttons, something she’s had since university. Sherlock undoes the top two, touches the soft skin at her throat, leading down to her chest. She inhales sharply when he does, shaking from head to toe. More buttons follow the others and then cool air hits her flesh and she shivers. _Are we really going to do this? What happened to that woman in Manchester, who wanted to take a man into her bed and she didn’t even know his surname, who wanted to smoke his cigarettes and watch the way the sheet curled around his body, feel him heavy inside me?_

 _You left her in Manchester,_ another part of her thinks. _And it would have been easier, with a man you didn’t know, a man you didn’t love. This isn’t just sex and you know it. You take this leap now and there’s no way you can go back_.

“I might be more inexperienced than most, but generally I’ve found that this works best if both of us are undressed.”

When she looks up at him, Sherlock is smiling, ever so slightly. When he touches her again his hands shake. _He’s just as nervous as I am_. The thought makes Molly breathe a little easier.

His shirts are made of the finest cotton, so soft that they’re almost like silk, perfectly cut and tailored and its almost a crime to take it off. The buttons are pearlescent and one pops off when Molly slips it through the buttonhole. She pushes the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders and her fingers follow where the shirt finishes, more confident now. He’s pale, pale like the snow on the ground, with more scars than the last time they did this. There’s one on his shoulder that’s still raised an angry, a long red line.

He kisses her once, an experiment. _Sherlock does like his experiments_. His hands are cold when they find her waist, slide up her back to take her shoulders. He’s warm when he presses the full length of her, hands slipping around her back to undo her bra. She smiles when he does, clearly very pleased with himself. _He didn’t know how to do that when we last did this_. He kisses her again, pushing her back against the door, mouth opening to stroke her tongue with his. Her hands cleave their way into his hair, the nape of his neck and his shoulders. He’s bigger now than he was, no doubt eating better. His hands travel downwards to her bum, squeezes through her jeans and Molly arches into his touch, wraps her legs around his waist and moans. He presses harder against her and the door digs into her bare back.

“The bed, Sherlock.” She whispers into his ear. _God, yes, the bed_.

Its different, to the last times they did it. No rain this time, but music. Light instead of dark; now she can see all of him, not just the bits left behind by the shadows. A bed that doesn’t creak, although its small so they use the floor instead, the duvet beneath them to cushion the carpet burn. Its slow and a bit bumbling until they get used to each other, but there’s joy now, where there was sadness, slow where it was fast and desperate and this time when Sherlock calls out there’s no tears that follow on.

Afterwards, they lie in the bed, sore and achy and Molly’s sticky between her legs, thanking God that she went back on the pill. She’s got stubble burn on her shoulder and Sherlock’s sporting a rather large hickey on his neck, the duvet now pooled around them both, a pillow under both of their heads.

“Would you be very angry if I had a cigarette?”

“I thought you’d quit.”

“I have.” Sherlock rolls onto his side to look at her, right arm under the pillow. He kisses her and she tastes sweat and herself on his lips. The thought makes her feel inordinately powerful. “But right now it feels like a good idea.”

“Your mum will kill you.”

“I could open the window.” He kisses her shoulder and looks at her through eyelashes, looking, for the first time since she’s known him, young and coy. “Just one?”

She sighs. “Don’t blame me when you get lung cancer.”

He rises from the bed, naked and glorious, finds his jacket and comes away, triumphant, with a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He stands at the window and lights up, opens the window just enough to let out the smoke. The wintry light catches his skin and to Molly he looks like a god sent down from Olympus. _He really has ruined me for other men now. Or maybe I just ruined myself, the first time I took him into my bed_.

“Planning on smoking the whole thing by the window?”

Sherlock inhales and blows out the smoke and its one of the sexiest things Molly’s ever seen, even though she’s a doctor and she knows that smoking isn’t healthy but the sight of him, holding that cigarette in fingers that play her as well as he plays his violin, makes her heart lurch.

“Thought I better had. Not fair to give us both lung cancer. You seem to like breathing.”

“Just smoke quickly.”

Sherlock catches her eye and smiles a lazy, post-coital smile. “Why, you missing me?” He finishes his cigarette and returns to bed, lies on his side, close to her but not really touching. “You were different, to the last time.”

“Well I was fat last time.”

“Pregnant, not fat.” Sherlock takes some of her hair, twists it around his fingers, seemingly pleased when he releases it and its still curled.

“So were you. Different, I mean.” Molly blushes. “Not pregnant. Or fat.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know.” Molly rolls onto her side and touches the scar. “Less sad. Less urgent. How did you get this?”

“Knife in Bulgaria. No, the Ukraine.” Sherlock shrugged. “He bought a knife to a gun fight. Only got close enough once.”

“Looks nasty.”

“The doctor lacked your finesse.”

There’s another one, a burn on his stomach, the skin mottled. Molly touches it, asks for its story.

“A fire in Bulgaria. Deleted the circumstances, weren’t very relevant.”

“Do you do that often? Delete things, I mean?”

“How else am I meant to keep and organise what’s useful?” Sherlock rolls her onto her back, kisses her long and hard.

 _Its so unlike him_ , Molly thinks as he moves atop her. _This isn’t like him, is it? How am I to know? I’ve never seen this side of him before, or did it just not exist, until recently?_ She doesn’t know what prompts her to ask, but she does anyway. She’s a masochist, sometimes.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Molly?”

“How did you recognise that woman at Christmas by not her face?”

“She greeted me in her house wearing nothing but red nail polish. Wasn’t difficult, to note her measurements.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock looks at her, something in his eyes. “You thought that I … that she and I-“

“Well what else was I meant to think?” Molly presses her lips together, the not-knowing pushing her words out. “Did you two ever-“

“No. God no.” Sherlock closes his eyes, shakes his head. “The Woman was fascinating, but any union of ours would have ended in disaster.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock watches her, clearly waiting for something else to come out of her mouth. When it doesn’t, he says, “You think that our union will end in disaster?”

“I … I don’t know. Sorry.” She smiles a little. “That’s probably just ruined the mood, hasn’t it? But everything’s changed so quickly, don’t you think?”

“Our daughter is almost a year old.” He leans across her and reaches for another cigarette, on the nightstand next to her. He props himself up in bed, the cigarette between his lips. “Things have been changing, for me at least.”

“When?” Molly takes the cigarette from him, twirls it between her fingers, a smile playing on her lips. “When did it change?”

Sherlock reaches for the cigarette but she holds it away, her arm just long enough for him to be out of reach unless he slides up her some more. He smiles at her, the challenge accepted. “Later.”

He kisses her then, long and deep and searching, so much that Molly’s toes curl against his. Her grip loosens off and the cigarette drops out of her hand, lands on the floor but neither of them care because her hands are soon gripping his shoulders, her legs hitched around his waist. _God_ , Molly thinks as she moans into his shoulder and tastes his sweat. Why did we wait so long to do this?

###

They’re back on the couch when Cora and Mark come home, hair damp from the shower. Molly’s got stubble rash on her cheek but prays her hair and makeup hides the worst of it, and Sherlock’s collar covers a hickey that’s as red as Amelia’s cheeks. He greets his daughter with a kiss and a smile so wide, and Cora and Mark share a smile.

“Nice day in Guildford?” Molly wants to stand up and give them a hug but her legs are achy and sore and she doesn’t trust herself to stand.

“Lovely, thanks.” Mark sniffs the air. “Have you been smoking, Sherlock?”

Sherlock catches Molly’s eye and she wants to giggle. “Just the one.”

“Smells like more than one to me. I thought you quit.”

“I did.”

“I hoped you at least opened the window.”

“We made some dinner, if you’re hungry.” Molly takes the opportunity to get up, manages to hug them both. _Can you smell your son on me, even after a shower?_ “Only chilli but we thought you might be hungry.”

“Thank you, Molly.” Cora hugs her and gives her son a knowing smile. “Very kind of you. Mycroft’s on his way down from London, he thought it would be nice for us all to have dinner together, since we didn’t at Christmas.”

Mycroft arrives an hour later with a bottle of cognac, his cheeks red from the cold. He touches Molly’s arm briefly and smiles at Sherlock, who is putting the finishing touches to the waltz he’s composing for the wedding. Molly sits a few feet away at the dining table, nursing a glass of wine and helping Amelia stand up. She’s a little bit wobbly but determined, and stares at her father like he’s the only man in the world who matters. Molly sips some wine and thinks about her dad.

“Careful, Amelia.” Mycroft says from the hearth, where he’s poking the crackling logs with the poker. “Don’t go near your father while he’s composing.”

“She’s fine, Mycroft.” Sherlock doesn’t turn around, focused instead on the snow outside, the sheet of paper to the side.

“Sherlock.” Molly whispers as she watches her daughter. “Sherlock, look.”

Sherlock turns around, still playing his violin. Amelia takes a step, then another. For a long moment, there’s no noise, no sound in the house at all except the crackling fire and Sherlock’s violin. Molly’s dimly aware of Cora and Mark on the other side of the room, watching their granddaughter take her first steps, Cora wiping her eyes.

Sherlock pauses his composition, looks down at his daughter. When he stops, Amelia stops walking, clinging to the dining table leg for support. She stares up at him, bearing a look that’s very eerily Sherlockian.

“I think that means she wants you to continue, brother dear.” Mycroft says, in a strangely strangled voice.

“Keep playing Sherlock.” Molly whispers, wishing to God that she had her phone to capture it, but when she looks at Mark he’s doing just that.

Sherlock, without taking his eyes from his daughter, begins to play again, the same waltz that he has been perfecting. The first few notes are imperfect, and when Molly looks closely she sees how his hands are shaking. But it doesn’t matter, because Amelia begins to walk again, one bumbling step then another, tottering along on chunky legs. _Go on_ , Molly prays as she watches them, not sure who she’s really talking to, inside her mind. _Go on. You can do it_.

Amelia comes closer to Sherlock, looking up at him with her huge, brown eyes and curls that are getting longer by the day. Her arms go up and her hands go out, little fingers reaching for her father. She takes another step, and then another, and her fingers find his suit pants and she finishes her first steps at her father’s feet.

 

TBC.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have the best readers, and the best reviewers

Molly wakes on the morning of the third day to a cold bed.

“Sherlock?” She tiptoes downstairs, anxious that she doesn’t wake anyone else. “Sherlock?”

“My dear brother is not here, Molly.” Mycroft is reading the papers, drinking tea and wearing an impeccably-pressed dark grey suit and gives her a vague smile when he sees her. Molly thinks about the previous night, the choked voice she’d never heard him use before. _The mask’s back on, then._ “He seems to find trouble, wherever he does. Or should that be that trouble finds him? A case, Molly.” He says when he sees Molly’s expression. “Or the closest thing to a case in this sleepy part of the world.”

“A case?” Molly doesn’t believe it. “Here?”

“I understand that John Watson is en-route even as we speak. I’m sure the lovely Mary Morstan will simply relish the idea of her beloved traipsing across the country with their best man, several weeks before the wedding.” Mycroft stares at Molly’s pyjamas. “You aren’t dressed. Did you bring your kit with you?”

“I’m on holiday.”

“Does Sherlock know that?”

Sherlock comes into the bathroom as Molly’s in the shower, pulling back the shower curtain and offering her a towel. “Come on, hurry up, there’s finally something fun going on!”

Molly stares at him, eyes almost as wide as his hair, rosy red cheeks and that smile. Sometimes, she wants to hit him. “We’re supposed to be on holiday, Sherlock.”

He looks at her like he doesn’t understand. “And it will still be there, when we’re finished. Please?”

“What about Amelia? Your parents are busy and Mycroft’s got a country to run.”

“We could bring her with us?”

Molly laughs at that, grabs the shower curtain and tugs it back into place. “You’re unbelievable.”

###

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Molly mutters as she watches Sherlock pack Amelia into the car. The little girl is most indignant about being strapped into a car seat only twelve hours after she walked to her father for the very first time, and isn’t shy about letting people know.

“Oh Molly, it will be fine.” Sherlock gives Amelia a toy to play with and his daughter bounces it off his head in response. “She’s crying. Why is she crying?”

“You’re lucky I’m not crying!” Molly says. “Taking our daughter to a crime scene?”

“Well you didn’t want to stay here, did you?” Sherlock smiles, kisses her very softly on the mouth, licks his lips in a way that makes Molly’s stomach quiver. “I always wondered what it would be like to solve crimes with you.”

Molly’s eyes narrow. “Just because we’re sleeping together it doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into one of _those_ girls, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks at her, like he doesn’t understand. _He wouldn’t, would he?_ “What girls?”

Molly stares at their daughter, still crying in her car seat. “One of those girls who lets her boyfriend get away with murder just because the sex is so good.” She stares at him, purses her lips. “You owe me big for this. So big.”

“We’ll add it to the list I’m sure you already have.” Grinning like a child at Christmas, Sherlock dashes around to the other side of the car and they’re off.

The body is a man from Guildford, found behind an old, disused farm about an hour from Cora and Mark’s house. The local police are already there and Sherlock wastes absolutely no time in inviting himself, Molly, and Amelia past the yellow crime scene tape.

“And just who do you think you are?” The lead detective says when Sherlock begins inspecting the car. “You can’t just invite yourself here because you feel like it.”

“Oh, but I can.” Sherlock says with a gleam in his eye.

“Hi there.” Molly flashes her Bart’s badge, Lestrade and Mycroft’s business card and hopes she’s a good liar. “I’m Dr Molly Hooper, St Bart’s Hospital.”

“What’s a doctor from a London hospital doing at my crime scene?”

“Bit hard to explain.” Molly shifts Amelia’s seat from one hand to the other. “That’s Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”

“Consulting detective?” The policeman scoffs. “Never heard of such a job.”

“That’s because I invented it.” Sherlock tosses over his shoulder.

“Sherlock Holmes.” The detective’s eyes narrow. “The one who jumped off the building a few years back?”

Molly smiles, breathes a little easier. _We’re halfway there already_. “That’s the one.”

“Read about that in the papers.” The detective looks at Amelia, quiet and very indignant in her car-seat. At least she’s stopped crying. “And who’s this? The famous Dr Watson?”

“The famous Dr Watson is here, thank you very much.” John pushes his way towards Molly, Mary on his heels. “There had better be a bloody good reason for me being here, Sherlock. We’ve got twenty different cake samples in the car that would have spoiled if we had just left them.”

“At least we won’t go hungry.” Mary hugs Molly. “How are you?”

Molly rolls her eyes. “Really wishing I wasn’t here.”

“Come now, John.” Sherlock’s peering through his magnifying glass, not glancing up from the car. “You know I never leave the flat for less than a seven.”

“You’re on holiday!”

Sherlock glances up at his friend. “That’s what Molly said. Why does everyone keep saying that?”

John looks like he wants to explode. “You’re in the middle of nowhere and you’ve dragged us all along for the ride. This had better be a ten, at least.”

“No.” Sherlock snaps his magnifying glass shut and stuffs it in his pocket. “Not even a five, I think. You’re looking for his wife, Detective.”

“His wife?” The detective looks completely nonplussed.

“Yes.” Sherlock says, brow furrowing. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

Sherlock puts a hand to his head. “Did you actually train to be a police officer, or did you just wake up one day in the police station after a bad bender and just decided to fix that badge to your jacket?”

“Sherlock.” Molly mutters. _He’s going to get us arrested, at this rate_.

“You are aware of the concept of motive, correct?”

“Of course I am!” The detective splutters.

“Oh, well, that’s very good. You’re halfway there already. The man was having an affair, probably with a younger woman, a blonde who dyes her hair judging by the hair that’s on the back seat, someone small, with size four shoes, judging by the muddy heel print that’s on the roof of the inside of the car. The wife probably found out about it, killed him in a jealous rage, drove the car out here. I’d pick her up before she leaves the country; judging from the smell of sun lotion on the seat, she’s probably already left the country for sunnier climes.”

“But you haven’t even looked inside yet!”

Sherlock shrugs, takes Amelia in one hand and Molly’s arm in the other. “I don’t need to.”

###

The five stop for a late breakfast at a greasy café just off the motorway. John gibbers about being dragged out of London for something that Sherlock solved in less than fifteen minutes; Mary’s just elated that Amelia is walking and spends the entire meal trying to get her to walk again.

“So what’s his parents’ place like, then?” She says to Molly as they change Amelia in the bathroom.

“Nice. Normal. Nothing like Baker Street.” Molly looks down, blushes. “We had sex.”

“Of course you did.” Mary points at Amelia, grins when she sees Molly’s face. “Oh. You mean here. Well, it was bound to happen eventually. What was it like? I mean, I love John but I’ve always wondered. I always think it would be a bit manic, going to bed with Sherlock.”

“That’s just the thing.” Molly shrugs. “It was absolutely nothing like what I thought it would be. Every time.”

“But good though?” Molly laughs, and Mary joins in. “It was wonderful. I don’t know what’s happened, but I can’t believe it, Mary. I mean, he’s still Sherlock, but he’s trying. He’s trying so hard. That’s all I wanted and now its happened.”

They drive back to the Holmes house, Molly looking out of the window, John and Mary following behind in Mary’s car.

“What you said, earlier, right here. Did you mean it?”

Molly glances over to Sherlock, who has parked the car outside the Holmes house and is staring at the front door. _How did we get back here?_ “Yes, I did.” Molly stares at him. “I’m not going to dance to your tune just because you make my toes curl, Sherlock.”

His head snaps towards her, that wicked grin on his face. He looks like his ego’s just got that little bit bigger, if that’s possible. “Really? Your toes actually curl?”

Molly rolls her eyes. “Let’s go inside, Sherlock.”

He catches her arm as she’s trying to get Amelia out of the car. “You have to tell me, when I overreach my bounds.” He says, his voice low. “John has indulged me in the past but with his wedding coming up … Thank you, for coming out with me this morning.” His mouth brushes against hers, lingering just long enough to be indecent. “What?” He says when Mary honks the horn and hollers, gives Molly a wink. “Its what boyfriends do, isn’t it?”

John and Mary stay long enough to see the Holmes house; John wanders around in a bit of a daze, going from one room to the other with restless, nervous energy, like he’s looking for something. “I just don’t understand it.” He says as he sits down, looking a little dazed. “There’s nothing, nothing to explain it.”

“Explain what, darling?” Mary says.

“Him.” John sips his tea, looks at Sherlock. “There’s no labs, no equipment, no eyeballs in the fridge! They don’t even have a laptop!”

“My cross to bear.” Sherlock pours tea into china cups with saucers while Mary coaxes Amelia into walking some more.

“How’s the best man’s speech going, Sherlock?” Mary says. “Got lots of stories to embarrass John with?”

“Oh, a few.” Sherlock says, but Molly sees the flicker in his eyes and tries to imagine Sherlock giving a best man speech. _Lord, just what would it be like?_

“We’re having a dinner party in a week or so, get everyone together.” Mary smiles, reaches for a biscuit before thinking the better of it. “You and Janine, mainly. You haven’t met her yet, have you? Nothing fancy, just dinner at our place, chance to finalise a few last-minute things. I’ll text you both with the details.”

Sherlock and Molly wave them off, Mary’s car kicking up a flurry of snow. Molly puts the dishes into the sink and feels Sherlock’s hand on her hip. “I enjoyed solving crimes with you this morning.” He says to her neck, pressing soft kisses against the skin. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

“Most normal couples go to dinner.” Molly winds her hands into his curls, enjoying the thrill of Sherlock Holmes openly and willingly displaying affection.

“We aren’t most normal couples.”

Sherlock twists her around until she’s facing him, lifts her onto the kitchen counter, hands slipping under her jumper. His mouth finds hers and he kisses her hard, fast, more precisely and expertly than he has in the past, fingers and tongue sure where they were tentative last night.

“What are you doing?” Molly says in-between kisses, her hands buried in his hair, moving down to stroke the muscles beneath his shirt.

“Making your toes curl.”

The blush that stains Molly’s cheeks heats up her whole body from root to tip. “But your parents, and Amelia-“

“Amelia is asleep.” Sherlock’s fingers fumble with the button on Molly’s jeans, pulls her legs around his waist. “And my parents won’t be back for hours.”

Its over more quickly than Molly thought it would be, her body reduced to nothing but a quivering mess under Sherlock’s deft touch, braced against his parents’ kitchen counter. His forehead is sweaty, breath ragged when he leans against her and presses his forehead to hers. _The case_ , she thinks as she kisses his hair and tastes sweat. _That’s what this is, the adrenaline from the case, pumping around his body_.

She pushes his hair away from his face and kisses him deeply. “We should solve crimes together more often.”

###

They drive back early on the fourth day, the sun watery and only a quarter of the way in the sky, the last vestiges of dawn. Cora and Mark wave them off and give them a tin of biscuits that Sherlock eats as they drive, the tin wedged by the side of his seat. Molly’s packed a flask of coffee that they share, and as they drive down country lanes she winds the window down just an inch and lets the cold air rush in, wishes it was summer so she could put her whole arm out of the window and let the warm air rush past her fingers.

“My university boyfriend had a soft-top car, when we met.” She says in a dreamy voice. “He came from Surrey, his parents had this country pile way out in the middle of nowhere. He was rich, handsome, clever – a mum’s worst nightmare, although she loved him. Dad hated him. His car was a present, when he finished school. At the time I thought he was awfully grown-up, having a soft-top car while he was still a student. It wasn’t until later that I realised he was a spoiled twat. But we spent a lovely summer in this neck of the woods, driving around with the top down.” She turns to look at him, thinks about their conversation after they watched that first sunrise together. _The things that make us human_. “Did you have many girlfriends, when you were at uni?”

Sherlock swallows, glances a quick look at her. “No. Married to my work, remember?”

“Even then?” Molly smiles. “You were solving crimes while you were at Cambridge?”

“Of course.” He grins at her. “There was a serial bike-stealer for a few weeks until I found the culprit. Plus the plagiarism circle in my first year, and the serial library book thief.”

“Not one?” When he doesn’t answer, Molly feels a little mean, like she’s stumbled upon a secret he was hiding. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“I had … encounters.” Sherlock says, eventually. “Not many. Enough to put me off until I graduated.”

Molly smiles, looks at the snowy landscape. “I only had the one. Ritchie, the one with the car. More than anything in the world, I wanted him to propose but he never did. Was never going to marry someone like me. It was our ten-year reunion a few years ago, since we graduated. Some of my friends asked me to go but I didn’t want to. A part of me was too afraid of seeing him again. I loved him so much, took me ages to get over him. Sentiment, you know.”

They drive in silence for a while, its not until the first sign for the motorway comes into view that Sherlock talks again. “The Woman … her name is Irene Adler.”

“Oh.”

“She … propositioned me, while I was investigating her.” Sherlock purses his lips, looks resolutely ahead. “I was tempted, but even someone as inexperienced as myself knew that she would have broken me, if given half the chance.”

Molly nods once. _I feel like we should be drinking, as we have this conversation. What’s that game? I Have Never. It feels a bit like that, but without the booze to cushion everything_. “When you say inexperienced …” She bites her lip and ploughs ahead. “How inexperienced? I mean, I’m not complaining about … technique or anything!” She says when she sees the expression on his face. _God, Molly, could you mess this up any more?_ “I’m just … I’m in single digits, so if you are too, or if you’re not, I’m just saying that its okay. To be inexperienced, I mean.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, but his fingers drum against the steering wheel. Eventually he says, “More than three. Less than ten. None lasting more than one evening.”

“Oh.” Molly doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not. “So this is your first relationship?”

“Romantically, yes. As you may remember from the Redbeard story, until John my attempts at relationships based on sentiment ended in death. And with John, well …” He trails off and focuses on the road.

Molly wants to sink into her chair, except she’s already sitting down in the car seat. _I feel a bit like I’ve run a marathon_.

They make good time back to London, pulling up outside Molly’s house with plenty of the day left. They’ve had snow while they were away, inches of it sit on Molly’s front wall.

Sherlock’s mobile chimes just as Molly’s unlocking the front door. “Got to go.” He has Amelia in her seat and she’s crying to be let out. “Lestrade’s got a case. Sounds like it might be interesting.” A press of his lips to hers and he’s gone, leaving Molly on the steps of her house.

“And where have you been?” Sally says in a sing-song voice when Molly calls her on her mobile, finally returning her call. “Came by your house, no-one home.”

“I took a few days off.”

“You don’t take days off, Molls.” Sally says. “You haven’t since you started school. Even on the school holidays, you were working.”

“Well I had time to take, so I took it.”

“Where did you go?”

Molly drums her fingers on the kitchen counter and watches the snow fall outside. “Sherlock and I went to his parents’ place.”

“Ah.” Sally says.

“Took you away, did he?”

“Sally-“

“And I suppose he told you everything you wanted to hear, about you and him and all that shit. Bet he promised you the world, didn’t he? Looked at you with those eyes and his hair, kissed you so hard that you saw stars.”

“Stop it. Just because you’re getting divorced, it doesn’t mean that all relationships-“

“He’ll break you.” Sally slurs the last word, but she doesn’t sound drunk. If anything, she sounds angry. “He will. You might be the eldest but you aren’t the wisest, not when it comes to men.”

“You got married when you were twenty, Sally – to a man you met on a beach in Australia three months earlier!” Molly snaps. “What do you know about relationships?”

“I know enough to know that Sherlock isn’t the marrying kind. I twigged to that five minutes after meeting him.”

Molly shakes her head, furious. “You don’t know him. You don’t like him.”

“No, you’re right: I don’t like him. I don’t like him because he’s going to get you hurt.” Sally sighs. “Its exciting, what he does. Exciting and glamorous, hiding bodies, secret meetings in your bedroom when he’s on the run, a brother who can make everything go away. But that won’t make a relationship, Moll. It won’t pay a mortgage, or hold you when you’re sick, or be there when you bury Mum and wonder if you want to lie next to him in the cemetery when your time comes.”

“I pay my own mortgage!”

“And what about this business of him dying?” Sally says. “D’you really think this Moriarty bloke is the only enemy that Sherlock’s made since he became the world’s only consulting detective? Have you read the news, about the kinds of people Sherlock tracks down, the kinds of people he’s made for an enemy? What will you do when one of them realises he’s got a gorgeous little girl that he’d die for, that he’d kill for? What will you do when you want Amelia to have a brother or a sister, or just someone to take to parents’ evening?”

“I’m hanging up now.” Molly grips the phone so hard that her knuckles go white. “Don’t call me again if you’re going to talk shit about Sherlock.”

Sally sighs. “God, Molly, I thought you knew better than this. I thought you knew better than to let your heart cloud your head-“

Molly hangs up, stares at the phone until she picks it up and throws it across the room, and tears drip down her cheeks.Her sister doesn’t call back, but Rick does, ever the peacemaker.

“She’s worried about you, Moll.”

“Funny way of showing it.”

“Well, the custody battle’s dragging out.”

“She doesn’t know Sherlock.” Molly says, insistently. “She doesn’t. She’s met him for five minutes on two different occasions. She doesn’t know him.”

“I know.”

“She doesn’t.”

“I know.” Rick sighs. “Look, I’ve got to go. Janet and I … we’ve got a meeting to go to. Divorce stuff, you know. I’ll talk to you soon, yeah? And don’t let Sall get you down. If anyone deserves a happy ending, its you.”

He hangs up, and Molly stares at the phone. _She doesn’t know Sherlock, she doesn’t_.

###

“We haven’t fought like that in a long time, Mary.” She says to her tea cup, Mary’s hands just in her line of vision. “And it just came from nowhere, this bitterness and venom. She hates Sherlock and she’s miserable, and she’s taking both of those things and twisting it, twisting what’s happening with us into something ugly.” She wipes her eyes can feel the mascara, crunchy beneath her fingers. “She said that he’d break me.”

“He’d never do it intentionally.” Mary says. “You know that. He adores you, Molly.”

“That’s not the same as loving someone though, is it?” Molly wipes more tears away. “I can’t believe this. Why does she have to shit on everything all the time? You’re lucky, not having sisters. When I was younger I thought we’d be just like Elizabeth and Jane in _Pride and Prejudice_ ; sometimes it feels more like Cain and Abel.”

“Ouch.” Mary winces.

“He started to tell me things, while we were away. Little things. He took me to this pub, where he got this dog from when he was younger, other things. It’s the first time he’s ever done that. He’s really trying, Mary.”

“I know, darling.” Mary hugs Molly. She smells like icing and sugar. _Testing wedding cakes again_. “They aren’t like normal men, love. That’s part of their charm, isn’t it?”

Molly’s in bed, not able to sleep. The snow is falling once more, white flakes against the window. She gets up to get a glass of water and Sherlock’s in her doorway, snow in his hair.

“You scared me.”

“Sorry. Didn’t want to use the front door.”

 _Secret meetings in your bedroom_. Molly pushes her sister’s words aside. “How was the case?”

“An eight. Lestrade’s picking the murderer up now.” Sherlock takes off his coat, stares at her. “You’ve been crying.”

“Its nothing.”

“No.” Sherlock touches her face. His hands are cold. _He’ll break you. He’ll break you, he’ll break you, he’ll break you_. “Its not nothing. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I had a fight with Sally.” Molly sinks onto the bed, tells him about her and her sister’s harsh words. When she finished, Sherlock takes a seat on the bed, reaches for her hand. He doesn’t speak; _would he even know what to say_ , Molly thinks as he buries his head in the crook of her neck. _I don’t even know what to say_.

Its different, this time. The snow is falling and it makes everything sound muffled, but inside Molly’s bedroom the bed creaks and skin and bodies come together, moving against cotton. Sherlock grips her hands as tight as he can, like he’s trying to talk to her with his body but there’s an edge to his movements, not sharp or blunt, just there. _What’s he trying to prove_ , Molly wonders as he pushes her over the edge and she moans his name against his skin, her legs wrapped around his waist. _And who is he trying to prove it to?_

“I can’t promise that I won’t break you, as your sister so delightfully put it.” His voice is quiet, against the darkness. “But then, it was my understanding that romantic relationships are reciprocal, so when seen from another angle, you’ve no guarantee that you won’t break me, either.”

 _And that_ , Molly supposes as she glides over his body, suddenly desperate to have him inside her, _is really the best that anyone can hope for_.

###

The days pass and the snow thaws; Amelia’s clumsy totterings turn more confident and soon she is walking like she’s been doing it since she slipped out of Molly. They make snow angels in the garden on the last day of the snow because Molly had seen it on the TV and decided it was what she wanted to do, only to cry the whole time because that’s what she and her dad used to do, before he got sick. The ladies at St Bart’s crèche coo and fuss over her walking, especially when she reveals a vocabulary that’s light years ahead of the other children there. Mycroft gives Molly a knowing smile, and when her shift ends, Molly looks at the school brochures in her desk drawer and wonders, wonders about everything.

At night Sherlock comes to her. Not every night, but often enough. Mrs Hudson jokes that soon she’s going to have to look for new lodgers; the thought makes Molly’s palms sweat in a good and a bad way. She thinks about Mary’s words, about everything changing. She and Sally haven’t spoken since their fight.

“Its not right for sisters to fight, Moll.” Her mum says to her one night, as Molly folds washing with the phone tucked against her chin. “You two need to mend this. You’re all you have in this world, once I’m gone, you and Sally and Rick.”

“I have Amelia.”

“Amelia’s a child, Molly, and while she won’t be forever, she is at the moment, and at the moment, you and your sister need to put things right.”

“What do you want me to say, Mum? She was rude about Sherlock, really rude, and unkind. Just because I’m happy while her love life is in tatters doesn’t mean that-“

“Your sister loves you, Molly. She loves you and wants what is best for you. All this talk about not liking someone’s boyfriend is childish.”

“Sherlock isn’t my boyfriend, Mum!” Molly wants to scream. “Its not like we’re sixteen. He’s the father of my child!”

“He’s also a man who throws himself off a building for his friends!” Lucy snaps. “He’s the same man who went undercover for almost two years, doing God knows’ what to God knows’ who. That’s a single man’s game, Molly. And I don’t see a ring on your finger, either. You won’t even call him your boyfriend!”

“Its more complicated than that, Mum.” Molly says weakly.

“Is it? That’s what you said about that boy you went out with after Ritchie. What was his name?”

“Andrew, Mum.” Molly sighs. _Its not like we haven’t had this conversation before_.

“Andrew, that’s the one. You used to tell me that it was complicated then, when he’d come and pick you up at all hours and then not ring you for ages, that it was complicated when you never met his family, or his friends. I wasn’t surprised when you called me up in floods of tears because you found out he was married. Complicated never ends well, Molly. Complicated is a byword for a lot of other things, not one of them good. Hasn’t it occurred to you that maybe Sally would like him a lot more if he did something a bit more than try and get in your knickers again?”

Molly pinches that gap between her eyebrows. She’s getting a headache. “When I was pregnant you had a go because I wasn’t with Amelia’s father. Now I am and you’re still having a go? What do you want from me?”

“Sally told me about Jim.” Lucy says. “Told me how nice he was, how much Noelle sings his praises. He still asks about you, apparently.”

“I don’t love him, Mum.”

“Oh, and you love Sherlock, do you?”

“Yes!” Molly snaps, then immediately wants to take it back, but really, what’s the point? Its not like people don’t know, even the man himself. “Yes, alright, I love him!”

Her mum’s quiet for a long time before she says, “And does he love you? Because love doesn’t solve everything but it makes a lot of things a lot easier.”

“He hasn’t said as much.”

“So he doesn’t, then?”

“I didn’t say that-“

“You don’t need to. Honestly, Molly, you’re young, beautiful, intelligent – why do you insist on surrounding yourself with men who don’t appreciate you?”

The conversation goes on and on and on; Molly pleads a headache and hangs up, sits and cries until Amelia runs into her bedroom and puts her arms around her mother, and Molly cries and cries and cries because she doesn’t know what else to do, but then Amelia’s little hands are replaced with bigger ones and Molly smells the faintest tang of cigarettes.

“You told me that you’d stopped.”

Sherlock gives her a crooked smile. “A habit I can’t seem to break. Go and have a bath, and I will watch Amelia.”

Molly soaks in the tub until she’s wrinkly but doesn’t want to get out. She strains to hear through the door, but only silence comes back to her. There’s a knock on the door as she’s thinking about getting out, when she calls ‘Come in,’ Sherlock appears, this time without his coat and suit jacket. He leans against the wall but doesn’t say anything, just watches her and Molly wants to wilt under his scrutiny. _He’s going to ask, and what am I going to tell him?_

In the end, all she can say is, “My mother.”

###

She has Amelia’s birthday party two weeks before Mary and John get married, just a small party at the house, the usual suspects. Mary and John arrive later than planned, and the air is tense, like they’ve disagreed, but they disappear outside for half an hour and come back full of smiles, so Molly thinks it can’t be that bad, and wedding planning must be getting to them both. Lestrade arrives with a present for Molly and an envelope of cash from everyone at NSY; Molly smiles and promises to put it in the bank account that Mycroft has set up for his niece and feathers every time he’s so inclined; Sherlock’s adamant that his daughter isn’t going to be a trust fund child (he knew too many of those at Cambridge, he says). Mike Stamford drops by with some clothes, hand-made by his wife, who is learning to knit. Mrs Hudson does the same, coos over Amelia like a grandchild.

Sally arrives with Lucy and Rick, Molly’s brother sandwiched between them, looking like a sandwich that’s taken to school and has been crushed by the weight of two formidable textbooks. Sherlock opens the door and greets them with icy civility; Sally can barely mutter his name but Molly’s almost glad that the pretences are gone. Her sister finds her in the kitchen and gives her a box of chocolates, Molly’s favourites.

“I stand by what I said.” Sally says gruffly. “But I love you and you’re my sister, even if you are going to end up getting hurt.”

Molly stares at the chocolates and thinks about what John said to her, a little over a year ago. _You’re not the first person to say that to me. Or the last, most likely_. “Thanks.”

They cut the cake and sing happy birthday; Mycroft arrives with his parents and Molly insists that he take a slice for Anthea as well as himself. Cora and Mark fuss about her with such love and affection that Molly feels a little of her heartache ease, wonders why her mum can’t be more like them and then hates herself for thinking it. And in the middle, of course, is a picture of her dad, on the mantel, watching it all.

Molly takes it onto the back yard and sits with it for a long time. _What would I give, to see Dad again? Mum talks about Sherlock being prepared to jump off a building for his friends, but I’d do that if I got to see Dad again, even if it was just for five minutes, just long enough that I could put my arms around him and tell him much I loved him, how much I missed him, and how much he taught me. How much I feel like I still have to learn_.

Its late when everyone goes. Mary and John are the first; early start tomorrow, they say. Sherlock watches them go, and Molly wonders what he will be like in two weeks’ time, when John is married and everything will be forever altered.

 _It already is altered_ , she thinks when she looks at Amelia, watching her dad play the violin. _It was altered the minute that stick turned blue. Sherlock’s just playing catch-up_.

Sally and Lucy and Rick are next; Sally’s had too much to drink but she hugs Molly tight and tells her that she loves her. Sherlock watches them go with barely a smile, and the one he does give is reserved for Rick, who at least tried to make conversation with him about his violin. _They’re all so different. Is this what all family events are going to be like, now?_

Mycroft takes his parents and Mrs Hudson in the same car, promises that he will call Sherlock and John, to let him know about the wedding, and then its Sherlock and Molly and Amelia in the house, silence bouncing between them like a great wave.

“Can’t believe it’s a year since she was born.” Molly says as she stacks the dishwasher, Sherlock at the table, cleaning his violin bow. “Is she asleep?”

“Upstairs, absolutely exhausted. Your family hates me, don’t they?”

“Sherlock-“

“That’s what you fought about, that night I came here and you were crying.”

“They don’t know you.”

Sherlock puts down the bow and his cleaning cloth, looks her in the eye. “It is one thing to know that people hate you. Believe me, I’ve lived my whole life knowing it. It is quite another to know that that knowledge causes pain to the people you care about. People who have been … instrumental, in so many parts of your life.”

Molly reaches for cups and plates, anything to keep her hands moving. “My sister is bitter and twisted. And has completely forgotten that she was the one who left. My mother, well … there’s just no pleasing her. I can’t do right for doing wrong. They think that we should be married, living together, domestic bliss. She forgets that the only reason she and Dad were as happy as they were for so long was that Dad just let her do whatever she wanted.”

Sherlock looks at the table, drums his fingers on the table, looks at the wall, anything but at Molly. The room feels heavy and awkward in a way that it hasn’t since … Molly can’t remember a time when its felt this way, not even after that awful party where Sherlock identified Irene Adler by not-her-face, and a part of Molly hates her mum and her sister for doing this, cleaving between them, on the day of their daughter’s birthday.

“Do you want to get married?” He says eventually.

“Are you asking me?” Molly doesn’t know what her answer would be, if he was.

“No. But your mother mentioned it and you never have.”

Molly presses her lips together, looks at the bow in Sherlock’s hands. “I think every woman’s thought about getting married at some point.”

“I didn’t ask about other women. You aren’t other women. You’re-“ Sherlock stops himself. “Please, continue.”

“I’ve thought about it, of course I have. I want Amelia to have a mum and a dad, living together. I know it isn’t the be-all and end-all, but its important to me. I just know that its more complicated than that.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Molly shrugs. “It’s a maybe. Its an, ‘if the circumstances were right’. Mum comes from an age where getting married was what you did, for most people. She doesn’t accept that things are different, for better and for worse.” She returns her attention to the kitchen, too afraid of what Sherlock’s reply will be if she turns the question on him.

They sit in silence for a while before he speaks again. “You’re a good mother, Molly. A good mother, and a good friend. A better mother than I am a father.”

“That isn’t true. You’ve stepped up in ways I didn’t expect. You made me feel like I wasn’t in this alone, when I thought I was going to be.”

“You were never going to be alone, Molly.”

“Felt like it.” Molly puts her dishcloth in the sink, turns to face him. “I remember when that stick turned blue – all six of them, I was so scared.”

“Six?”

Molly blushes. “I got a bit carried away. Threw them away, like that was going to make me less pregnant. I was so scared, especially after than man threatened me on the bus. But you’re right, I wasn’t alone. And I remember waking up in that hospital, and everyone was there-“

“Except me.”

“Except you.”

“I hope you know … I hope you understand, how much I regret not being there. There has been very few times in my life when I have regretted my actions. That was one of them.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Molly reaches for his hand, slips hers against his. “Do you want to know what one of mine is?”

He doesn’t say anything, so Molly takes it as her cue to continue. “I hated him.” She says in a trembling voice. “When he died. My dad. No, I’m sorry, I didn’t hate him, I shouldn’t have said that. I was angry with him.” She stands up, moves around the kitchen table, towards Sherlock. Her body shakes with nervous energy. “People don’t tell you, what its going to be like. They don’t tell you how hard grief is, what it does to you, the ways it makes you feel, like you’re not yourself. I never hated my dad, not once while he was alive. I don’t think we ever had a cross word. Mum and I; God, we’d fight every week, but not me and Dad. And when he died, all I could think was, ‘You’ve left me, alone in this world. It was always the two of us, and now you’re gone, and how am I meant to live in the world now that you’re not there?’ And I was so angry with him.”

She stops when she reaches Sherlock, his eyes level with her breasts. Her fingers brush his hair, reaching for the curls, moving down, to his shirt. She steps closer and he opens his legs for her, lets her into his space. Her fingers toy with the buttons on his shirt and she opens it like today is her birthday and she’s his present, stares at his pale, muscular chest, thicker than it was when he fell, the last time she took him into her bed. Her fingers reach for flesh, nails just brushing the hairless surface that ripples and moves when she presses it.

“He had cancer, Molly.” Sherlock’s voice is soft, different to how she’s ever heard him before. His hands come to her waist, brushing her flesh through her blouse. “He fought it twice.”

Molly’s eyes flicker to his. “You read his medical reports.”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s hands are warm, even through her clothes. _Does he know, that I need to feel skin on skin, to talk about this? Does he know, that I need to be close to the man whose mark on me is almost as indelible as my father’s?_ “But then, so have you, haven’t you?”

Molly nods, tears welling up in her eyes. She talks to Sherlock’s chest when she says, “I know. I know all of this. I read his reports, once I’d qualified. Mike doesn’t know, no-one does, I’d probably get the sack for it, but I pulled them out of the archive and read them. I just wanted to know, wanted to look, check that nothing had been done that couldn’t have been done differently.”

Her fingers leave him and she unbuttons her own blouse, pushing it off her body until she’s there in jeans and her nicest grey silk bra and she sits down, on Sherlock’s lap, curling herself around him like he’s a tree and she’s a vine, Sherlock’s large, warm hands on her skin.

“And could it?”

Molly glances up to his face, makes herself meet those blue orbs that live in his face. _He knows the answer, just like I do. He knows, but he’s asking anyway_. “No.” She shakes her head so hard she worries its going to come off. Hands come to touch her stomach, the flesh that she’s so paranoid about, especially in front of him. _Why did I think that this was a good idea?_

 _Naked, I wanted to be naked in front of him, in every way that matters_.

“No.” Tears slip down her cheeks, one catches on her bra and makes the grey dark. “No, not a bloody thing. They did everything right, and it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She covers her face with her hands, a sob coming from her mouth. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

Sherlock’s still for a few minutes, only touching her shoulders. Then slowly, one moves down her arm, following the crook of her elbow, up to her face to find her hands. He’s not wearing any expression, not confusion or malice or even judgement. He’s just there. “That’s what you said to me, wasn’t it, that day when we watched the sun come up? Its what people do. I was – am – an addict, Molly.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It started at Cambridge. Easy to get, if you knew the right people, which I soon did. Brilliance doesn’t always attract brilliance, you know.”

Molly pulls her hands away from her face, lets her fingers trail up Sherlock’s arms. “What was it? Which drug, I mean?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks upwards. “Would probably be easier to list what it wasn’t. Pick one and I tried it.” He swallows, looks away, out of the window where the snow has started to fall. “I thought I had it under control. Mycroft thought differently. Older brothers are so irritating when they’re right.”

“How long have you been clean?”

“Ten years, give or take. Mycroft knows a place, where people go to dry out. Wouldn’t do to have a member of the Holmes family in the same place as film stars and footballers. No, this was somewhere quiet, out of the way. Only addiction now is the odd cigarette. And the work.” He looks at her, reaches for her hand. “We stand a little closer now, I think.”

“Yes.” Molly manages to smile, through her tears. “I think so.”

###

They lie in bed, naked and alive in a way that Molly’s never felt before. Sherlock’s feet are freezing and he likes to hog the pillow. Its strange, but despite the sex and despite Amelia and their history, Molly has never felt closer to him, in this moment, in the few moments that came between. _Stripped_ , she thinks, shivering when she feels his hand on her stomach. _I feel stripped_.

“You spend a lot of time, trying to cover your stomach.”

“Its not the same, since Amelia.” Molly sighs. “Nowhere is. I didn’t think it mattered that much, until afterwards, when I looked in the mirror and didn’t like what I saw. I probably sound like a terrible mother for saying that.”

“Identity issues are common after pregnancy and childbirth, according to studies.”

“Is there anything you haven’t read?”

“Nothing interesting.” Sherlock sounds sleepy.

“Did you really not know that the earth doesn’t go around the sun?”

“Why is everyone still talking about that?”

“Its primary school stuff, Sherlock.”

“Now you sound like John. Why is it that you all get so agitated about me not knowing things that are billions of miles from us but I’m not allowed to express astonishment that you can’t solve something as basic as a murder? Which one’s more relevant to us now?”

“I think we’d notice if the Earth stopped going around the sun, Sherlock.”

“Well you certainly wouldn’t notice if the murder rate spiked.”

“Sherlock?” She gets a muffled ‘yes’ in reply. “Why did you do it? The drugs, I mean?”

Sherlock opens his eyes, turns his head to look at her. She’s not seen him like this since that night, when the world was black and orange and wet outside, and she touched Sherlock Holmes’ hair for the first time. “Because I’d read all the books in the library.”

“There are dozens of libraries within Cambridge, Sherlock. In fact, there’s over a hundred, including the affiliated libraries.”

Sherlock grins, and looks years younger. “Very good. Mycroft told me that you applied to Cambridge; I bet you memorised lots of little facts about the place. You shouldn’t have wasted your time, though. You were much better off at King’s.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

Sherlock’s quiet for a moment. “You know my methods, Molly Hooper. And that’s all, for the moment, that you’re going to get.”

Molly lies there, staring at him, lit by the morning sun. “I was invited to the Body Farm, while I was in Manchester.” She says, so quietly that its not even a whisper. “They have an international Fellowship programme.”

“Saw James Darcy’s name on the list of attendees and you’re a brilliant pathologist; wasn’t hard to deduce the rest. Plus the glossy brochure sticking out of your handbag was a bit of a giveaway. Are you going to apply?”

“I said that I would.” Molly stares at him, words on her tongue, sentences in her mouth that aren’t really formed. _Think carefully about what you want to say next, Molly Hooper_. But she looks at him, and knows that all she can say is the truth so she says, “I want to. A part of me wants to. The world’s a big place, and I’ve never been to America. I’ve never worked anywhere but London.” She shakes her head, a little bit ashamed. “The weekend in Manchester was the first one in years where I’ve been north of Oxford. I’ve lived my whole life in England and I’ve never seen it.”

“It would greatly enhance your career prospects, if you wanted to leave Bart’s.” Something passes across Sherlock’s face, but she’s not sure what it is. “My brother will offer to help you. Don’t let him. You won’t need it and you’ll always question your abilities if he did.”

Molly slips into sleep faster than she thought she would, but her dreams are chaotic at best. She dreams that she’s running through a field in the summer, the air smelling sweet. She can hear voices but can’t make them out, see a little girl running ahead with long black, curly hair. She’s running towards a man, his face in the shadow. He calls her name and Molly wakes with a start to a world of rain and a chilly, empty bed.

“Didn’t want to wake you.” Sherlock says when she comes downstairs. “Lestrade has a case. Sounds like a ten.”

Molly stares at him in his suit, already wearing his coat and scarf. “Then I suppose you’d better go.”

###

Molly is doing housework when there’s a knock at her front door. She checks the clock, wishes she could curse them out for calling at an inconvenient time, but early afternoon on a Saturday isn’t really inconvenient at all.

 _Maybe Sherlock forgot his keys again_ , she thinks as she walks towards the front door. _I should have checked before they went off in the taxi_. Today he had promised to show his daughter the London Bridge and the Houses of Parliament; Amelia had looked nonplussed but Sherlock seemed excited. Molly’s only caveat was no dead bodies.

Its not Sherlock, Molly can tell that just by the shape of the figure on the other side of the frosted glass. This person is shorter than Sherlock, with what looks like red hair. Her fingers linger on the locked front door, momentarily unsure. She doesn’t get many visitors, especially unannounced strangers.

“Dr Hooper?” A female voice, on the other side of the door. “Dr Hooper?”

Molly puts a smile on her face, and opens the door. “Can I help you?”

The woman on the other side of the door looks about her age, with shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair that’s a little bit crinkly. She’s wearing makeup that reminds Molly of a 1940s movie, black eyeliner and very red lips. Her clothes are smart but a little bit worn, and she’s got a leather satchel slung across her body.

“Can I help you?” There’s something familiar about this woman, but Molly can’t quite decide what it is.

“I hope so.” The woman gives Molly a friendly smile. “We have some mutual friends, you see.”

“We do?”

“Oh yes.” The woman reaches into her bag, hands Molly some papers. “I thought these might be interesting, to you.”

Molly takes the pictures but it takes a few minutes for her gaze to focus. When she does, she can’t seem to make her mouth work. “But … but how did-“

“They’re a bit grainy.” The woman says, her eyes blank and flat. “But it’s a miracle, what you can do with a good camera these days.”

Molly stares at the pictures, the joined figures there, through the window, on the bed. _My bed_. She looks at the ruffled dark curls, the long body draped around her smaller one. She looks at the one of the three of them together, the ones of Sherlock and Amelia; they really do look so much alike.

“Frankly I think it’s a miracle that you’ve managed to keep it a secret for so long.” The woman says. “Really quite something, in this day and age. You can keep those, if you want to. I’ve got more.”

Molly’s eyes flicker back to the woman on her top step. “I know you.” She says, wiping her eyes, anger flaring hot and wet inside of her. “I remember you, from after the trial. You and Moriarty. You’re the one who destroyed Sherlock’s life.”

“He destroyed it himself.” Kitty Riley says with a snarl. “Arrogant fucker. Quite how he’s managed to catch you is beyond me. Or have you caught him?”

Molly wants to hit her but won’t give her the satisfaction. She steps back into her house and moves to slam the door. “Get off my steps before I call the police.”

Kitty Riley catches the door before it can slam. “I think you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say, first.”

###

Later, when Molly has stopped shaking, she reaches for her phone, scrolls down until she finds the number she wants and dials.

“Molly.” Mycroft sounds worried; she hasn’t called him for months. “Is something the matter?”

“Kitty Riley came to the house.” Molly’s anger curls inside her, making her icy calm. “She knows about Amelia, being Sherlock’s daughter. She wants my side of the story.”

Mycroft’s very quiet for a moment. “And what do you want, Molly?”

“I want her address.”

“That would be exceptionally unwise.” Mycroft says after a few minutes. “I understand your rage, but allow me to select someone from my team to make the housecall.”

“I want to go with them.” Molly’s voice is cold like a long winter. “Her story will put my daughter in harm’s way. So you find the address and get your contact to pick me up. I want to be there, this time.”

TBC.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I still have the best readers and the best reviewers. The response to this story has been utterly fantastic, thank you so much! 
> 
> A/N 2: The wedding scene between Sherlock and Molly was inspired by The Gaslight Anthem’s Have Mercy.

The address comes to Molly at the morgue a few days later, borne by Anthea in a black suit, her phone in her pocket, this time. Her hair is coiffed and perfectly styled, her shoes the same ones Molly had seen in several fashion magazines. _She’s the most unlikely intimidator ever_ , Molly thinks as she takes off her lab coat and grabs her handbag, catches sight of herself in the mirror: jeans and a jumper, a bright scarf. _But then, I suppose that I am too, really_.

“Mike, I’m just stepping out for lunch!” She calls to Stamford. “Be back later.”

“Take your time!” Her boss replies from his office. “The only people waiting here are the dead.”

The lift clunks and whirrs the whole way up from the basement. Molly pushes her hair back behind her ears, smoothes her eyebrows for errant hairs, wants to look in the mirror to check that she doesn’t look a fright. Inside she feels oddly calm.

“I want to stop at the crèche before we go.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Does … Does Sherlock know?”

Anthea gives her a look and gets off on the first floor; Molly strides ahead, her flat shoes making squishing sounds against the tiles. Amelia is running around in the crèche, holding toys that Molly hasn’t seen before. The other children watch her like she’s something to be found in a zoo, and when the little girl sees Molly, she drops her toy and runs to her.

“Mummy!”

“Hello, darling.” Molly hugs her daughter tight and thinks about the pictures that Kitty Riley is threatening to sell, the story that she’s threatening to write, with or without Molly’s input. _The people who would pay for the pictures and Molly’s address, who would cut up your daughter and post her back to Sherlock piece by piece_. Any nerves she might have had flutter out of her mind like a breeze across an ocean.

“I’m ready.” She stands up, nods at Anthea.

They take the stairs down to the first floor, Molly’s hand heavy on the rail. Anthea walks calmly, head up, shoulders back, like she’s walking down a bloody runway. Halfway down the stairs, Molly grabs Anthea’s arm. “Sherlock can’t know, about today.”

“That’s between you and him, Dr Hooper.”

“No.” Molly shakes her head. “No, that isn’t what I mean. He’ll want to take over, do it his way. She’s my daughter, Anthea. I carried her around inside me, spent hours pushing her out, raised her when he wasn’t there. This is mine to do. Do you understand?”

If Anthea does or doesn’t, she gives no indication of it, just takes them outside, icy winds blowing under Molly’s coat. There’s a grey car parked at the kerb with a disabled parking pass stuck to the windscreen; Anthea gets in the driver’s seat while Molly slides into the front passenger seat.

“No black car?”

Anthea angles the mirror, watches the traffic. “This car was reported stolen last night. The license plate’s clean, no trace. Tomorrow the car will be found on a wasteland with its original plate, set alight.” She quirks a smile at Molly. “Kids today are bastards.”

 _She’s wearing gloves_ , Molly thinks with a certain sense of dread. _She’s wearing leather gloves_. “Do you have the address?”

“I know where we’re going.”

Anthea joins the traffic without incident; Molly looks out of the window, at the cars and buses going by, the commuters struggling this way and that. And I’m off to a journalist’s house to put the fear of God into her. _What the hell am I doing?_ Amelia’s face flashes into her mind, and her resolve hardens. _She threatened your daughter. She threatened Sherlock, you_.

It takes her a few minutes to realise it, but she notices that as they move, the security cameras are turning away from them, focusing on other things. _Mycroft Holmes is the scariest man I know_.

“I don’t want to kill her.” She says as Anthea clears central London traffic, heading south. “I don’t. I just want her to give us the pictures.”

Anthea turns her head, smiles. “That’s not really my area. Different department, bureaucracy, you know. If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here? Doesn’t really seem like your area, either.”

“It isn’t. But the last time something like this happened, Mycroft and Sherlock took care of it. This time … I won’t sit at home while her father and her uncle slay my daughter’s dragons.”

Anthea nods, drums her fingers on the steering wheel. Only once they reach suburbs does she say, “It wasn’t Mycroft.”

###

Kitty Riley lives on a wide street in an old neighbourhood that’s seen better days. A ground floor flat on the corner, Molly and Anthea sit for several minutes at the other end of the road, watching cars and people move this way and that.

“How do you know if she’s home?”

“She’s home.” Anthea checks her phone, clicks a few buttons. “Has been for an hour. We’ll have to be quick, though. Her brother’s coming to visit this weekend and she’s meant to be picking him up from the Tube.”

They get out of the car and close the doors; even though Molly closes hers as quietly as possible, it echoes around the street. Everywhere sounds quiet, too quiet. Molly’s heart is pumping so hard that its all she can hear, the rush of adrenaline and fear sharp and acidic, on her tongue.

_You’re about to step over a line, if you do this. Once you step over this line, will you be able to step back? It might work for Sherlock and John, the self-styled sociopath and the soldier. It might work for Anthea and Mycroft, bound by strength and honour to serve the country, but you’re a pathologist from North London with a dead dad and a borderline alcoholic sister. You deal with people once they’re dead, you don’t help them along the way. Will you be able to look at yourself in the mirror, once you do this?_

_She threatened Amelia. She threatened Sherlock_. Molly looks at her hands and finds them, to her surprise, calm and steady. _I think I’ll sleep just fine_.

Kitty Riley’s flat has a large bay window on the ground floor, overlooking her corner of the street. Blinds in the window, closed. _That’s good_. Anthea and Molly come at the flat from the other end of the road, missing the window entirely. There’s a few steps up to the front door; their shoes make no sound as they ascend.

“Shall I ring the doorbell?”

Anthea shakes her head, produces a key from her pocket. When her jacket swings open Molly sees a black handle, sleek and dark against the white blouse. A barrel follows suit and her mouth goes dry. _A gun. She’s got a gun_.

Anthea spies her looking. “Just in case she needs some more persuasion than a kind word.”

The front door opens without protest. The hinges are greased and oiled and don’t squeak, and open into a hallway with cheap laminate floor, made to look like dark wood. There’s white paint on the other woodwork and its in dire need of a paint job. The light’s off and even in broad daylight the hallway is dark, the only light coming from upstairs. To the right is a door, looks heavy.

“That’s the one.” Anthea says in a low voice. She’s got another key in her hand but pauses outside the door, presses her ear against it. “Put your phone on silent.”

There’s noise on the other side of the door, pre-recorded laughter. _She’s watching the telly_. Other movement too, footsteps on carpet, a body moving on the couch. Anthea slides the key into the lock, glances a look at Molly.

“I’ll go in first. You stay behind me, shut the door as we go. Let me do the talking.”

Molly nods. Anthea takes out her gun, screws something onto the barrel. _A silencer_. “I thought you said we were just going to talk to her.”

“We are.”

The door is also well-oiled and opens without complaint. They’re faced with a large living area, a kitchen as well as a living room, similar to the same flat that Molly had when she first graduated. Kitty Riley is on the couch, watching the TV; an old rerun. Her back is to the door and the volume is so loud that she doesn’t hear them come in, so engrossed that she doesn’t suspect a thing until Anthea puts the gun to the back of her head.

“Turn down the television, please, Ms Riley. Not off, just low. Nice and slow now, there’s the remote, just on the right. Doctor, if you wouldn’t mind taking Ms Riley’s phone off the coffee table, that would be great.”

Kitty Riley does as she’s asked but doesn’t turn around, puts her hands up when Anthea asks. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“We have some mutual friends.” Anthea says, her hand perfectly steady. _Maybe she does do this all the time_ , Molly thinks. “One of those friends is here now and would like a word.” She nods at Molly. _Okay. Showtime_.

Molly takes small steps around the sofa. _Its much bigger than I thought_. There’s a coffee stain on one armrest and the whole place smells like pizza. Kitty Riley is wearing jogging bottoms and odd socks, no makeup and damp hair. Her face is deathly pale, but her expression shifts from fear to surprise when she sees Molly.

“Dr Molly Hooper. This is a bit of a surprise.”

“You were expecting someone else?”

“Well … yes, if I’m being honest.” Kitty looks Molly up and down, seeing the scarf and coat, the side-braid that makes her look like she’s only just graduated. “You don’t look like you’d say boo to a goose; now you’re standing here holding a gun to my head.”

“My friend’s holding the gun.” Molly stares at Kitty’s pale, expressionless face. “You don’t seem very frightened for someone with a gun to her head.”

“Well, pardon me for saying so, but you aren’t very frightening.”

“She’s not the one with the gun.” Anthea presses the silencer into Kitty’s head. “And believe me, I’m plenty frightening when I want to be.”

“How did you get my address?”

“A little bird told me.” Anthea says.

“The same bird that sent you those pictures?” Molly can’t believe that her voice sounds so calm. _Is it me who’s speaking, or someone else? I don’t even sound like me_. “Pictures of me and Sherlock. Of our daughter. I want them. The originals, any copies and the digital backups that I know you’ve got.”

Kitty tips her head towards the file on her coffee table. “Go ahead. Take them.”

Molly grabs them, flips through the file. _There they are_. She stuffs them under her arm. “Where are the digital copies?”

“Where are they?” Anthea says when Kitty hesitates. “Trust me, you’d rather tell Dr Hooper than me.”

“Tough girl, aren’t you?” Kitty snaps. “Standing behind me, pointing a gun at my head. And you, Dr Hooper, getting some blunt instrument to do your dirty work for you.”

“That’s enough.” Anthea says, with an edge to her voice that Molly hasn’t heard before.

“Does Sherlock know you’re here?” Kitty looks Molly up and down. “Can’t imagine that he does. The Great Consulting Detective probably wouldn’t like the little missus running around, making him look like a ball-less little shithead.”

“Shut up.” Molly whispers.

“Molly.” Anthea shakes her head. _Don’t rise to it_.

“Did he ever tell you how we met?”

“I don’t care.”

“In a men’s bathroom, of all places.” Kitty smirks a little. “Where all the best relationships begin, isn’t it? At the Moriarty trial. I offered him an exclusive. Offered him whatever he wanted, to be quite honest. He’s so buttoned up, isn’t he? There’s something very attractive about all that intellect, that big brain hidden under all that thick mop of hair. I bet you love running your fingers through it, I know I would. I bet when he lets loose he’s really something. Of course, he’s a prick too. Bit repellent, now that I think about it. Course, after all those stories came out, I’m surprised you want anything to do with him.”

“Where are the digital copies?” Molly wants to tear Kitty Riley’s tongue out of her mouth and beat her with it. “I want everything you’ve got. Everything.”

“I don’t have everything.” Kitty says with a smirk.

“Something funny to you?”

Kitty shakes her head. “The look on your face. You’re so completely out of your depth, aren’t you?”

“You threatened my daughter.” Molly takes a step closer, her hand closing into a fist. She wants to hit Kitty Riley so badly that she can taste it and when she sees the first spark of fear in the journalist’s eyes, her mouth twists into a smile all on its own. “Threatened Sherlock, me. I think my depth is just fine.”

“Start talking or I will pull this trigger.” Anthea says.

“I don’t have everything.” Kitty says at length, looking at the floor. “The flash drive on the coffee table, the one marked SH. That’s all the notes that I have on Sherlock, you, your daughter. But it isn’t everything, just what I managed to get. Believe me, you’d rather it was my name on the byline than someone else’s. You don’t think I’m the only journalist Sherlock’s offended over the years, do you?” Kitty leans forward, her voice very quiet. “I know things about Sherlock Holmes that would burn you to ash. Things that you can’t unknow. And I’m not the only one. I’m not the only one who knows where you live, Molly Hooper, who knows about your daughter.”

“Where’s the rest?” Molly snaps. When Kitty doesn’t answer, Molly slaps her once, hard, across the face. “Where is it?”

“Molly.” Anthea murmurs.

“Shut up.” Molly whispers, grabs the flash drive and shoves it in her pocket. “Where’s the rest, Kitty?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Who does?”

“Someone else.”

Molly slaps her again. “Who has it?”

“My employer.” Kitty touches the side of her face, where a large red mark is forming on her cheek.

“What’s his name, Kitty?” Anthea murmurs. “Just the name, that’s all.”

Kitty swallows, looks up at Molly. “Magnusson.” She says, and Molly sees real fear, in her eyes. “Charles Augustus Magnusson.”

Anthea lowers her arm but doesn’t put the gun away. “Come on, Molly. Ms Riley, I’m sure you agree when I say its probably best for all concerned if you don’t repeat this conversation to anyone that you know, unless you want to know what a real blunt instrument can do.”

Kitty Riley laughs. “It doesn’t matter. None of it does. So you take your file, Doctor Hooper. Take it and the flash drive and think that you’re safe, that your daughter is safe. That your beloved Sherlock is safe. But it’s a lie, an illusion. You’re all only as safe as Mr Magnusson wants you to think that you are.”

Anthea and Molly walk back to the car in silence. Its started to rain and they’re wet by the time they reach the car. Anthea’s on her phone as soon as they get inside, her fingers flying over the keys. Molly hugs the file to her chest and a wave of nausea rolls through her.

“Hold on.” She opens the door as Anthea starts the car. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

###

Sherlock sends her a text message just as Anthea drops her off: _Case was a six. It was the neighbour. No-one thought to check his bins. Can I buy you and Amelia some chips?_

Molly stares at the screen, thoughts jumbling through her head. _Sherlock can’t know about this. That’s what I said, isn’t it? What I said to Anthea? He can’t know._

_Can’t he?_

_He trusted me when he needed to jump off a building; can’t I trust him with threatening the life of the woman who threatened him and his daughter?_

Eventually she sends him a message: _We are free. Come over_.

He arrives in a taxi and comes to the door smelling like that in-between time of winter and spring, wet leaves and the promise of new grass. Molly greets him at the door with a kiss that bleeds desperation over them both.

“Tell the taxi you don’t want him to wait.”

She takes him into the kitchen; he stares at the file on the table and says, “Where is Amelia?”

“In the living room. She likes watching the news.”

“I went to Bart’s. Stamford said that you had gone out. You never go out, not in all the years I’ve known you.”

“I go out. I go out all the time.”

“At Christmas when you buy your mother a present because you’re convinced that she won’t like the other one you’ve bought her. You’re usually right but then, she never likes anything that you buy her.” Sherlock’s fingers trail along the flesh-coloured folder. “A case?”

Molly shakes her head. “Kitty Riley came to see me.”

Something flickers, in Sherlock’s jaw. “Here, or at Bart’s?”

“Here.” Molly gestures to the file. “She showed me some pictures. Of me. And you. Of us. And of Amelia. I took care of it.” She says when he starts to back out of the room, heading for the front door.

“You took care of it.” He looks at her like he doesn’t understand a word that she’s saying. “I went to see her.”

“You went to see her?”

“You sound like a parrot.” Molly strives for humour but he just stares at her. “Yes, Sherlock, I took care of it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Mycroft helped you, didn’t he? Of course he did, you’d have no idea how to do this on your own, hurting someone isn’t in your nature. You could ask Lestrade but not without him asking questions, and you’ve got no guile and this isn’t something you’d go to him for, not if Kitty Riley threatened your family.” His eyes flicker to her hands. “You didn’t hurt her. Not with your hands, anyway. You’re a surgeon, of course you wouldn’t risk those hands, but you still managed to extract the information from her within the space of several hours, meaning that you had help. Again, Lestrade’s a no, so is John, there’s no way he’d keep something like this from me, and Mary’s no torturer. No, you had someone else with you, someone trusted, discreet, just blunt enough to make a threat credible but sharp enough to get the job done and get out. Only one who fits the bill is Anthea, thus Mycroft.”

Molly stares at him. “You tell me that I’ve got no guile but I still managed to keep your secret for over a year, didn’t I?”

“So it was Mycroft?”

“Yes. It was. And I asked him not to tell you.”

“Why?” Sherlock just doesn’t understand; it’s plain on his face. “Why didn’t you come to me-“

“Because you would want to take care of it.” Molly touches his arm, slides her hands down to his. His fingers are slack, don’t twitch and curl around her own. For some reason, that makes her feel a little bit afraid. “The same way you took care of the man who threatened me, when I was pregnant.”

Sherlock looks at her, like he’s focusing for the first time. “You wanted to do this.”

“Amelia’s as much my daughter as she is yours.” Molly pulls herself up to her full height, a full foot shorter than Sherlock. “Kitty Riley came to my house, mine, not yours. She came to me, threatened the two people who mean the most in the world to me, so let me ask you: why should I have gone to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, because you don’t know the first thing about threatening people?”

“Don’t.” Molly shakes her head, vibrating a sudden flash of anger. “Don’t you dare. I might not swan about in a fancy coat, jumping off bridges and threatening people with guns but I won’t let the people I love be threatened. I protect what’s mine, Sherlock.” She meets his eyes. “I’d kill, for what is mine. For the people that I love. Why do you get to do that but I don’t?”

Sherlock looks at her for a long moment. He looks away first, his eyes on the file on the kitchen. “And did your … technique work, with Ms Riley?”

“What do you think?” Molly takes the flash drive from her pocket. “She said that there were people who knew you, who would kill for the information on here, about me and you and Amelia. That there were people who would make you kill for them, so that we would live.”

“Do these people have a name?”

Molly swallows, takes his hand again and this time, to her intense relief, he squeezes back. “Magnusson. Charles Augustus Magnusson.” She kisses his cheek, cold beneath her touch.

“Amelia would love some chips.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not really very hungry.”

Molly burns the file and the flash drive in the back garden, in a metal bin that she keeps just for this occasion, burning important documents. Usually its old tax forms and bank statements. A few weeks ago she found a load of old letters that Ritchie wrote to her when they were dating and he didn’t have internet at his parents’ house. She thought about reading them but eventually just threw them into the bin, watched the old paper burn and curl. Now she stands with her hands in her pockets, the lone file in the bin, flames dancing around it. It eats the file first, goes for the photos next, rippling and bubbling the pictures until they’re nothing but ash and only bits of the memory stick remains.

 _Magnusson. Charles Augustus Magnusson_. Molly rolls the name around on her tongue, pulls her coat tighter. She’s cold, despite the warmth of the fire. _Who is he, and what does he want with me and Sherlock?_

She doesn’t know how long she stands outside, but when she comes indoors there is a packet of chips on the table, still wrapped in white paper, tucked in neatly at the corners. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, but Molly follows the sound of music upstairs, where she finds him in Amelia’s room, standing at the window, violin in hand.

“Thanks for the chips.” They’re salty and full of vinegar and the best things that Molly has eaten all week. “You still composing?”

“Helps me think.”

Molly nods, watches the straight back, the dressing gown billowing out around him, a chill through the open window. “Are you angry with me?”

“Of course not.”

“You look like you’re angry with me.” Molly puts the chips on Amelia’s bedside table. “I’m not apologising for this, Sherlock. So be angry all you like, sit and sulk like a child because I took away your favourite toy, whatever you want, but I won’t apologise for doing what you do.” As she turns to leave him, she says, “I didn’t kill her. I don’t know if you care or not-“

“I don’t.”

“Right. Sentiment.” Molly drums her fingers on the doorframe, looks at the scarred wood. “But I didn’t kill her.”

###

“I don’t want you to be in my world, Molly.” Sherlock says to her a few days later, as she’s washing dishes and he’s holding Amelia on his hip. “Not that part of it.”

“I’m already in your world. I give you the bodies of the dead to whip with your riding crop, remember? I saw the darkness in people long before we met.”

“On a table.” Sherlock watches his daughter, holds her close. “Under slides in a laboratory. You’ve never seen death the way I have. I don’t want you to see it the way I have.”

“Have you ever done an autopsy, Sherlock?” Molly puts the dishes on the draining board, looks up at him. Have you ever cut open a body, felt someone’s heart in your hands?” When he doesn’t talk, she carries on. “You think that you’ve known death, that you know death because you see it at a crime scene. I hold it in my hands. I feel the damage done to people, by people. I know, what you did to the man who threatened me and Amelia. I might not have done the autopsy, but I’ve touched death in a way that you never have. You can’t keep me from it, Sherlock, and even if you could, even if I wasn’t a pathologist, I know death. I met death long before I met you. I held Dad’s hand when he died, saw his chest stop moving.” She touches his hand, hers wrinkled from the water. “Death brought us together. Even Sally saw that, knows that you understand me the way no-one else ever could. I couldn’t stop being a pathologist any more than you could stop being a detective. There’s no shame in admitting those things.”

“It isn’t what I want for you. It isn’t what I want for Amelia.”

Molly looks at their daughter. _If we were brought together by death then she was made by death, made when one of us was dead, but which one? Which of us was the more alive, even when he was dead? Which one of us is more alive now?_

“I wanted to threaten Kitty Riley the same way you wanted to hurt the man who threatened me.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him.” Sherlock’s words are clipped. “I wanted to kill him. I’ll kill anyone who threatens you both, who wants to hurt you both. I’ll do it; I don’t want you to do it.”

Molly smiles and she doesn’t need a mirror to know that it’s a sad smile. “Too late, Sherlock. Much too late.”

###

“You’ve got the number of the church, haven’t you?” Molly’s drying her hair and trying to apply makeup at the same time, glancing a look in the mirror, where Rick is playing with Amelia in her bedroom.

“On the fridge.”

“And the number for the reception?”

“Fridge.”

“And my mobile number?”

Rick rolls his eyes. “Amelia, your mummy’s forgotten that I’ve got two kids of my own. Relax, Molls. I doubt the world is going to end just because Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are going to church.”

Molly looks at her reflection. _Too much eye shadow on one lid_. She looks at the dress that’s hanging up on the wardrobe door, the green silk dress that she had taken to Cora and Mark’s. She adds more eye shadow to the other lid, adds a touch of liner and mascara. “Do I look too vampy for a wedding?”

Rick glances at his sister, his eyes soft. “Just vampy enough. Sherlock won’t know what’s hit him when you come downstairs.”

“Thanks for watching her. I know its late notice. I was going to ask Sally but, well, you know.”

“She wanted to come.” Rick’s showing Amelia a book, but she’s not impressed, preferring instead to walk towards her mummy, arms outstretched. “To help me. I told her it wasn’t a good idea.”

Molly pins her hair up into a chignon, leaves a few strands around her neck and face. “God, my hair’s so shit. Why is it that Meg Ryan can do this in the films and looks amazing, and mine looks awful?”

“She’s got a fleet of hairdressers. You’ve got clips and a brush. And you look nice with your hair down.”

“It just hangs there.” Molly finds a brush and backcombs the top section, smoothes loose strands and pulls the rest back into another bun. “Does this look better? Maybe I should wear another dress, that one’s ten years old-“

“Molly.” Rick takes his sister’s shoulders, hands chilly through her dressing gown. “You are going to look gorgeous in that dress, hair up or down. I mean it.”

Molly looks at her hands, the neat, elegant manicure that she had done last night while Sherlock was alternating between writing his best man speech and finalising the notes for John and Mary’s waltz. “This is the first time Sherlock and I have been to something like this. A party, I mean. We didn’t really, well, he doesn’t really … I’m sorry, I’m not wording this right.”

“Its okay.” Rick kisses his sister’s cheek, careful not to upset the makeup that she’s spent the past thirty minutes applying. “Parties aren’t his thing. I was the same when I was younger. I know I try to stay out of things with you and Sally; how am I meant to choose between my two sisters, right? But for what its worth, I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time.”

Molly feels her chest get tight and watery. “Really?”

“Really. No ifs, no buts.” Rick sighs. “My wife’s divorcing me and she’s taking me to the cleaners, kids, house, you name it. My sister’s left her husband because she was having an affair and she’s getting sole custody of her kids while her husband’s left with a house he didn’t want and a life of watching his kids grow up via Skype. I need my oldest sister to have some happiness. I need a pathologist and a psychopath to restore my faith in romance.”

Molly smiles weakly. “He hears that and he’d tell you to do your research. He calls himself a high-functioning sociopath.”

“Oh, alright. Now come on; let me help you into your dress.”

The material feels glorious as Rick helps Molly into her dress, the silk clinging to her in all the right places. The zip runs from her bum to base of her skull, glides up with a soft tug.

“Rick.” Molly finds her brother’s hands and pulls them around her waist, knuckles white as she curls her fingers over his. “You’ll walk me down the aisle, won’t you? When … if it happens, you’ll be there, won’t you? You’ll talk, at the wedding?”

“Of course I will.” Rick hugs his sister hard.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“You’ll …” Molly feels tears on her lashes. Its too much to bear but she’s got to say it anyway. “You’ll talk about Dad too, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. No, don’t cry, love. Not until you get to the church, alright?”

“Molly.” Sherlock’s voice from the other side of the door. “We need to leave. Are you ready?”

Molly smiles at her brother through her tears, wipes at her eyes and checks her makeup. _A bit vampy_ , she decides as she slips into her shoes, skyscraper heels in patent black leather, an impulse purchase a few weeks ago. _Oh well. Too late to do anything about it now_. “I’m ready.”

Sherlock opens the door, tugging at his jacket sleeves. He’s wearing tails and a morning suit with a bright cravat and Molly immediately thinks of Jane Austen when she sees him, He’s freshly-shaved but his hair is just as untamed as ever. He looks like he’s about to go into battle.

“Everything okay?” She says when he doesn’t move, just stares at her with a wide-eyed expression. “What have you forgotten?”

Rick leans into her with a smile. “I don’t think he’s forgotten anything, Molls.”

“Do I look alright?”

“You look …” Sherlock blinks, swallows. “You look very nice, Molly.”

Molly walks towards him, unsteady on her heels. He stops her when she gets close, looks her up and down, like he can’t quite believe she’s really there. His expression doesn’t change as they go downstairs where their taxi is waiting for them.

“Is there something wrong?” Molly says as she reaches for the door. “You’re looking at me like I’m a stranger.”

“No, its just …” Sherlock won’t shake that startled look off her face; _does she need to go and change?_ “I feel like I’m seeing another side of you for the first time.” He looks at her shoes and smiles. “A much taller version of you.”

“Well, you won’t be looking down on me so much. And I won’t be looking up at you. Hurts my neck, after a while.”

“Don’t hurry back!” Rick calls as Sherlock follows Molly into the back of a taxi.

“Mummy and Daddy.” Amelia says, imitating her uncle’s wave from the top step, gripping Rick’s hand tight.

“Yes, darling.” Rick holds Amelia’s hand and kisses the top of her head. “That’s your mum and dad.”

###

They make good time to the church but by the time they arrive Molly’s as nervous as if its her own wedding day. Thousands of thoughts race through her mind: _do I look alright? Is Sherlock’s speech going to be okay? How’s he going to handle John getting married?_ _What about Magnusson?_ She opens her mouth to ask Sherlock if he’s spoken to Mycroft about that name but thinks the better of it. _Not today_ , she vows as the cab eases to a stop outside the church. _Not today. Today we are just going to be Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes at the wedding of their friends John Watson and Mary Morstan. We are not going to be the pathologist and the detective._

 _If only it was that easy_.

Sherlock pays the taxi driver and gets out first, holds out his hand to help her out of the car. When she’s halfway there he leans closer. “You look absolutely exquisite.”

“Sherlock!” Janine is upon them both before Molly can reply, a flush of lavender and lilting Irish accent that to Molly sounds like honey poured out of a jar. Her hair is long and thick and dark, curls in an effortlessly chic way, half-pinned back behind her ear. She hugs them both and her perfume lingers; Molly doesn’t like the way she looks at Sherlock but is determined not to become a sixteen year-old girl over it.

“Janine.” Sherlock nods stiffly, violin case in his hand.

“Nice to see you again.” Molly says.

“You too.” Janine touches her arm, bright eyes shining with sincerity. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to catch up after John and Mary’s dinner, but you know how weddings can be. Your dress is gorgeous.”

“Thanks. Where’s Mary?”

“In the hotel, over the road. She wanted me to do a final check, make sure everything was running smoothly.”

“I see John in the churchyard.” Sherlock smiles an apology. “Excuse me.”

Molly makes her way into the church, lingers by the door to watch Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson take a walk together. _One final walk_ , she thinks, _before everything changes. After this morning, John will belong to someone else in the way that Sherlock doesn’t, and Sherlock’s whole world will change_.

“I wonder what they’re talking about.” Mrs Hudson comes next to Molly, kisses her cheek and tells her that she looks gorgeous.

“Tobacco ash, probably. All two hundred and forty-three different kinds.”

“I still remember the day John came round. He always said that Sherlock saved him, but I think it was the other way around. I’m so glad he has you, Molly.”

 _But he doesn’t_ , Molly thinks as she takes her seat next to Mrs Hudson and watches Sherlock and John by the altar, waiting for Mary to arrive. _Not the way John will have Mary_.

The wedding march begins and everyone rises for Mary, walking down the aisle herself. John’s face alters when he sees her, relief and love and joy and wonder and fear and certainty all etched onto his face in a few breath taking minutes. Sherlock stays by his side, mere inches separating them, his face a mask. He only steps away when Mary finally reaches John, carefully situating himself several paces behind the happy couple, waiting with the rings for when he’s called upon.

The ceremony is short, with one reading and a hymn that Molly doesn’t recognise. Mary’s voice is perfectly clear as she says her vows; its John’s who breaks when he comes to slip the ring onto her finger, the entire congregation holding its collective breath. When the ring finally slides him, Molly feels eyes on her; Sherlock’s pale blue ones, looking for her in the crowd.

It hits Molly, then, hits her like a freight train without breaks. Despite their conversation from a few weeks ago, she knows. _I want that. I want to belong to Sherlock the way John now belongs to Mary. The way Mary belongs to John. I want to stand up there with our family and our friends and tell everyone that my name is Molly Holmes, that Sherlock Holmes is my husband and I love him and our daughter so much that I’d march into a woman’s home and threaten her. That I’d kill to protect them._

 _Not the most traditional vows_ , she thinks as she watches Sherlock take a seat next to her and squeeze her hand. _But they’re ours, at least_.

###

She doesn’t see Sherlock for a while after that; she and Mrs Hudson walk to the reception venue together while Sherlock poses for photographs, but something twists in her stomach when she sees him and Janine arrive at the reception together, a smile on both their faces like they’re sharing a joke no-one else understands. _She’s a bridesmaid, he’s the best man; I’ve been to enough weddings to know what the cliché is_.

She’s on a table with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, squeezed between them. Greg tells her that she looks stunning and doesn’t ask about Sally, for which Molly is grateful. The others at the table are people that John knew from Bart’s when he was training and they all have enough in common to make sure that conversation flows; when Greg disappears off to take a call Molly takes his seat so that she can sit next to one of John’s fellow students at Bart’s, a woman called Margaret who went on to be the first female chief pathologist at a big teaching hospital in Newcastle.

“You should absolutely apply for the Body Farm’s fellowship programme.” She says when Molly lets slip that she met James Darcy. “I mean it. Its still the most prestigious programme of its kind. I was there for three years and it opened doors for me I would never have thought possible. If you don’t, you’ll always regret it.”

 _You’re right_ , Molly thinks as she looks at the older woman, her hair cut stylishly short and flecked with grey, bare fingers with a nice manicure. _But what about everything that I’ll leave behind?_

“Nonsense.” Margaret says crisply, when Molly raises the question. “You can’t plan your life based around other people, Molly. Otherwise you’ll wake up without a life of your own. A life lived for someone else is no life at all.”

###

Sherlock’s speech is a resounding success, segues into hypothetical and real murder aside. Molly holds her breath for the first five minutes, hyper-aware of every word he says and every movement he makes – or doesn’t make. He’s nervous, anyone can see that, but Molly feels it, vibrating out of every pore. He’s stiff in a way he hasn’t been for a long time, anxious about, well, everything. He doesn’t care what people think about him, not these people who he will never see again, but he cares about what John thinks of him, what John will think of his speech, which is why there isn’t a dry eye in the house when he’s finished.

“They all cried. Why did everyone cry?” He says later, once the plates have been cleared and they manage to steal a moment together, in-between arresting the wedding photographer for murder and preparing for John and Mary’s first dance as man and wife.

“People cry when they’re happy, Sherlock.” Molly kisses him, slides her hands into his. “They cry when they’re really happy.”

“So I did it right, then?”

Molly smiles against his mouth. “Yes. You did it right, absolutely.”

Despite Sherlock’s protests that he doesn’t play for an audience, he does a pretty stellar imitation of it when he places his bow against the violin string and begins to play. Molly hasn’t heard the final version of the Watson Waltz, but from the moment Sherlock begins to play, every cell in her body is atingle. She’s looking at the happy couple, of course, but she’s thinking about a dance in a living room in a cottage in Surrey, a kiss to the mouth of a man who has changed her in ways that she can’t even begin to fathom. She thinks of his flesh against hers, the way he whispered her name against her body, the reassuring weight of him braced over her. And when she looks at him, she sees him looking at her, and hopes that for just a moment, he’s thinking the same.

When he’s finished he takes a theatrical bow to raucous cheers and clapping, his grin a mile wide and it makes him look like a naughty schoolboy. Molly lingers at the back, happy to let him have his moment of glory. But then the disco starts and he’s descending the stage, head and shoulders above everyone else, eyes scanning the crowd.

“I think he’s looking for you, dear.” Mrs Hudson whispers in her ear and gives her a gentle nudge towards Sherlock, who is moving towards them with a half-smile on his face.

“Solving a murder, giving a best man speech and bringing the house down with a waltz: not bad for a consulting detective.” Molly grins at him.

He shrugs, a lazy gesture that looks so out of place on his shoulders. “I had a free afternoon. And now I have a free evening, if you’d be so kind to oblige me?”

Molly looks at the dance floor, the others mingling and bopping to the music. “You mean dance?”

“If I remember, you did promise me.”

“I’m not very good.”

“Then its fortunate that I’m exceptional.” Sherlock takes her hand, pulls her close. Their stance is different to before, when it was stiff and formal. Now his hand is on her waist, the other cradling her hand close to his chest, moving them to a tune only he can hear, something slow and gentle. _Something distinctly un-Sherlockian_. Molly’s happy to be moved along to the music in his mind, although she wishes that she knew what it sounded like.

“You spent a long time talking to Margaret Faulkner.” Sherlock says after a few moments. “A kindred spirit?”

“Something like that.” Molly dips her head, a little bit embarrassed although she doesn’t know why. “She told me I should apply to the Body Farm.”

“You should.”

Molly swallows. “Do you really think so?”

“I think that you deserve to be happy, Molly.”

Molly raises her head, to meet his eyes, half-afraid of what she will find there. “And what if I don’t know what will make me happy?”

Sherlock smiles, removes the flower that’s pinned to his lapel and carefully slides it into Molly’s hair, smoothing the strands of her chignon so the flower looks like its always been there. Despite everything, despite the sex and the child that they made, it’s the most intimate gesture that Sherlock Holmes has ever done for her.

“Then I think that you are no different to everyone else on this planet.”

###

Molly kisses him in the taxi, on their way home, slow and laborious, almost crawling onto his lap as she explores his mouth with hers, almost like she’s kissing him for the first time. His hands slip around her waist, touching the silky fabric that pools there, hands cool through the fabric. Her fingers touch the hair at the nape of his neck, the curls that linger there, behind his ears.

“Stay the night.” She whispers against his mouth. “Don’t go back to Baker Street. Please, stay the night.”

The cab pulls up outside Molly’s house. The lights are on but the curtains are drawn; Molly checks her watch and hopes that Rick hasn’t fallen asleep in front of the telly. There’s voices coming from the living room when Molly opens the door, little drunk on champagne and love and dreams and the flower in her hair. Rick’s voice isn’t among them; _has he got the telly on too loud again?_

“Rick!” She puts her keys on the counter, lets Sherlock take her coat from her shoulders. “Rick, we’re home!”

“In here, Molls.” Rick calls back, but he doesn’t sound like Rick, not really.

“Everything okay?” Molly slips off her shoes, swears when she spies a ladder in her tights. _This is why I hate wearing dresses_. “Sorry we’re later than planned, took us forever to get a taxi.” She walks into the living room and stops, colour draining from her face. “Who are you?”

The middle-aged woman who is sat on Molly’s couch rises and smoothes away any creases in her suit. “You must be Molly Hooper. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Molly looks at her brother. “Are you okay, Rick?”

Her brother is at the other end of the couch and she’s never seen him look more afraid. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

“Where’s Amelia?”

“Your daughter is upstairs, asleep.” The woman says. “Don’t worry, she hasn’t been harmed, and won’t be. I don’t hurt innocents so you and your brother can relax.”

“You’ve broken into my house and held my brother hostage.” Molly looks at the diminutive woman in her living room and the men she’s brought with her and doesn’t know who she should be more afraid of. “Excuse me if I’m having a hard time believing you.”

“I didn’t break into your home. And your brother is a guest, not a hostage. Now, where is Sherlock Holmes?”

There’s footsteps on the stairs, someone coming down. Molly turns her head to find Sherlock coming downstairs, a man following him. The consulting detective’s hands are held high and his face is a pale mask that relaxes on fractionally when he sees Molly.

“Amelia?” Molly’s heart is pounding. _Where is my daughter?_

“Asleep. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Now we’re established how fine everyone is, Mr Holmes, please do be seated.” The woman turns to Rick and gestures to the door. “Mr Hooper, you’re free to go. I’m sure it goes without saying that you should keep what happened here tonight to yourself.”

Rick looks at Molly and shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without my sister.”

The woman raises a single, perfectly-plucked eyebrow. “I don’t think that you heard me correctly. You were not being asked to leave, Mr Hooper. Now get out before one of my colleagues puts you out.”

“Its alright, Rick.” Molly reaches for her brother’s hand, squeezes tightly. _He’s shaking_. She kisses his cheek and hugs him hard. “Its okay. Go on, I’ll be fine. Go upstairs and get Amelia, take her back to your flat, get Sally to read her a story.” She untangles herself from Rick with some considerable effort; he clings to her like a vine, just like he did when their dad died, but she kisses his cheek again and gives him a nudge.

The woman and her dogs let Rick go upstairs, he comes down with Amelia, who reaches for her parents and starts to shriek when Rick walks out of the house with one last look at Molly and Sherlock.

“You too, Dr Hooper.” The woman says. One of her men steps towards Molly until Sherlock breaks his nose; he goes down like a sack of bricks.

“Dr Hooper is not being evicted from her own home, madam.” He says, coldly. “If you aren’t prepared to say what you must in front of her then we really have nothing to say to each other. Now choose quickly, before my brother arrives.”

The woman stares at Sherlock, but eventually nods and Molly watches her brother and her daughter get in his car, her stomach churning. Only once the car has left their road does she turn around. Sherlock has taken a seat on the couch, taken off his jacket and is sitting in his waistcoat and grey striped trousers, cravat still tight and rigid.

“Now that we’ve dispensed with the theatrics, can you explain what you’re doing here?”

The woman watches Sherlock like it’s a game of cat and mouse, although Molly wouldn’t ever put money on Sherlock being a mouse. “My name is Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes. And I have a case for you.”

“A case.” If Sherlock is interested, afraid or at all emotionally invested, he doesn’t show it. “And what kind of a case do you have that would possibly interest me?”

Lady Smallwood smiles without mirth. “Are you familiar with the name Charles Augustus Magnusson?”

 

TBC.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter takes us past the 100k mark! Not bad for a fic that originally began life as a one-shot …
> 
> A/N 2: This whole chapter was inspired by Aquilo’s ‘You There.’

The weeks following John’s wedding bleed into a menagerie of writing and proofing, redrafting and tweaking, lots of red pen and scowls as Molly turns her lens towards the dead across the Atlantic. The small box room in her house on Dunstable Road is turned into a makeshift office; Molly’s computer balanced on an old desk that she’s sure came with her when she graduated. On one side is the old notebook she used to use when writing grant proposals as a research student. The old ways are the best ways, she thinks as she reads notes on grant applications that are years old. On the other is a stack of articles from former Body Farm fellows, papers drawn directly from the research they did while in Knoxville. Her inbox is full of correspondence from former fellows with tips and hints, redrafted proposals covered in tiny track changes from Margaret Faulkner and Mike Stamford. She’s chewed the tops of three red biros already.

“You’ve got to come out of your cave eventually.” Sally comes into the box room with a bowl of soup and a cup of tea and bread that smells homemade. “How’s it going?”

Molly tosses the pen onto the desk and lets the papers follow suit. “I don’t even recognise words anymore. Thanks for coming round to help me with Amelia.”

Sally shrugs. “Rick had a meeting with his solicitor, couldn’t get out of it. When’s the deadline?”

“Not for another few weeks. Everything has to be done by April, and then they announce the winners in May, to be in Knoxville by September.” Molly swallows, her eyes on the glossy brochure. “They let the winners teach classes. Can you imagine, Sal, teaching some of those students?”

“Makes me feel a bit queasy, to be honest.”

“The FBI.” Molly rubs her eyes, a headache pressing on the back of her skull. “The bloody FBI, Sal. They send their agents there for field training, not to mention police from all over the country, other doctors, pathologists.”

“Sounds like your kind of place.”

Molly’s eyes drift to her most recent resume, covered in her not-so-neat scrawl. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I really think my work with Sherlock will help my chances. We’ve solved so many crimes, seen so many unusual things. Plus his lab technique, grasp of chemistry … its amazing. Everything else aside, I learned so much from him.”

Sally smiles faintly, a little quirk of the lips. “Well if he helps you get to the other side of the world, far be it from me to criticise him for it.” She looks at the papers, spread all over the desk. “How is he?”

“You don’t have to ask, Sal.”

“I know.” Sally looks at her sister. “Rick and I had a fight, a few weeks ago. Just after he came back from yours, to be honest.”

“Oh.” Molly’s suddenly very interested in her nails. She dreams about Lady Smallwood and a shadow called Charles Augustus Magnusson sneaking into her house and taking Amelia and nothing Sherlock says or does makes the dreams stop. She remembers her vow, made all that time ago, to find some nice, normal friends. Right now her dreams about Lady Smallwood are more realistic than that.

“He came home, looked like he’d seen a ghost. Told me I needed to accept that he was in your life and he was here to stay.” Sally sighs. “I just worry about you. I don’t care if you think I overstepped my bounds-“

“Which you did.”

“-but you’re my sister and Dad’s dead and ever since he died you’ve been this lost little soul. Until Sherlock. And as much as I hate to admit it, he has changed, recently. And like I said: he gets you like no-one else does. Speaking of which.” She looks at the notes again. “Where is he? Thought this would be right up his street, getting you into a place where you can look at bodies and get paid for it.”

Molly looks at her hands, covered in ink from where one of her biros burst. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know. What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“He’s working on a case. A big case. High-profile.”

“And just because some rich tosser’s got himself in trouble, that means he doesn’t have to call?”

“No. But Sherlock gets like this when he’s working something big. He goes off into his own little world.”

“He might have been able to do that when he was single, but he can’t now.” Sally sits down on the nearest flat surface; a box full of books that Molly has yet to unpack. “He’s got responsibilities, Molly. To you, to Amelia. He can’t just piss off and not tell you, that isn’t what being in a relationship is.”

“Its what being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes is.”

“No.” Sally shakes her head, her mouth firm. “There’s got to be give and take. What part of his life is changing if you let him swan about all over London?”

“I can’t ask this of him, Sal.” Molly leans back in her chair, wipes her face and brings what little of her makeup remains. The relief at being able to talk to her sister after so many weeks estranged is palpable. “He’s already changed so much for me, for Amelia. You don’t understand how hard it is for him.”

Sally takes her sister’s hand and squeezes. “You used to say that about Andrew. The married one. That we didn’t understand how hard it was for him.”

Molly snatches her hand away. “You sound just like Mum. And Sherlock is nothing like Andrew. Nothing. And besides, you were married and that didn’t stop you.”

“I married a man I didn’t know when I was little more than a child.” Sally shrugs. “I’m not saying what I did was right. Believe me, I know it wasn’t. But what I do know is that if one person in the relationship does all the heavy lifting, that’s a recipe for disaster. Come on, let’s go downstairs. Amelia’s in bed, thought we could watch some telly. _Pride and Prejudice_ is on the telly.”

“I should really finish this.”

“Its almost nine, Molls. Give yourself a break.”

They open some wine and settle down to watch the TV, but despite Elizabeth Bennett’s rapier wit and Colin Firth’s sideburns, Molly can’t focus. Her hand strays to her phone, checking for messages, missed calls. _Nothing. Where is he?_ She looks at her sister, wonders what she would say if Molly told her everything, about Lady Smallwood’s visit, about the letters that she wanted Sherlock to collect from a mysterious place called Appledore.

 _She’d tell me to get out_. Molly sips her wine and looks at her sister, so like her mother regardless of which angle you look from. _She would. She’d tell me to take Amelia and move somewhere far away and not look back. Isn’t that what I’d tell her, if our situations were reversed?_

###

Its almost midnight and Sally is long gone, and Molly’s just getting ready to go to bed when the back door opens and Sherlock appears, his scarf in his hand and his collar up. His shirt is more unbuttoned than usual, exposing the pale flesh of his throat and neck. He looks almost naked, without that scarf.

 

“You scared me.” “Sorry.” Sherlock walks to the kitchen table, takes a seat. Molly comes closer, hovering for a kiss but he waves her away. “I smell. Not a good idea.”

“Where have you been?” Sherlock sheds his coat, gets up and rummages in her cupboard, comes away with a glass and the bottle of scotch that Mycroft left behind after Lady Smallwood’s visit.

“The case.”

Molly watches him pour a stiff finger and knock it back. His fingers shake when he sets the glass on the table. Its been a long time since she saw Sherlock’s fingers shake during a case. When he comes to her, he shakes sometimes, when he’s emotionally compromised and vulnerable and her name is a prayer he whispers against her flesh. But not for a case.

“You could have let me know where you were. Not seen you for a couple of weeks.”

“You’ve had the grant application to keep you busy. How’s that going?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Number of times you’ve redrafted it now, must be Pulitzer Prize-winning prose, or whatever passes for great literature these days.”

“Enough.” Molly snatches the glass out of his hands, anger flaring in her chest like a flower in summer, stares at Sherlock in bewilderment. Where has this come from? “I’ve spent the past two weeks being patient and understanding. Where have you been and why have I barely heard two words from you? What if something had happened to me, or Amelia?”

Sherlock looks confused. “But you text me all the time. I know that nothing has happened to you; if you hadn’t told me, Mycroft would have.”

“That isn’t the point, Sherlock.” Molly presses her lips together, counts to ten in her head. _You will not get angry and you will not cry. You will blame yourself for willingly entering into a relationship with an overgrown child who doesn’t know that the earth goes around the sun. If he doesn’t know that, how can you expect him to know this?_ “When you’re in a relationship with someone, you let them know how you are. When you share a child with someone, you let them know how you are. Its simple courtesy.”

“If you had wanted simple courtesy, perhaps you should have found someone simple.”

Molly’s hand comes out like a whip, harsh across his face. “What’s happened to you?” She whispers as he puts a hand to his face, blinking rapidly. She’s not sure who’s more surprised at her outburst: him or her. “Things were fine, at John’s wedding. And then since that woman came into our home you’ve been different. You’ve barely been here, you barely see Amelia, you’re out chasing those letters for someone you don’t even know, never mind like-“

Sherlock opens his mouth, rubbing and testing his jaw. “Nice right hook.”

Molly glares at him, moves to the door to open it. “Get out.” When he doesn’t move, she points. _Where is this courage coming from?_ “You’re not welcome here until you resemble the man from John’s wedding. The man from your parents’ house.”

“This is who I am, Molly.” Sherlock puts on his coat and scarf. “You knew this when you took me into your bed for the first time.”

He grabs her wrist as he’s leaving, drags her outside. “Hit me again.” He whispers, his voice low.

“What?”

“Hit me again and make it look good.”

Molly’s eyes widen, but she does as she’s bid, a sharp one-two slap across the face. “Bastard!” She adds for good measure. “Bastard!”

Sherlock grabs her arms, not tight, just enough to pull them close. His breath is warm against her skin. “There’s men watching the house, probably bugged it. Visit your father tomorrow for lunch. Mycroft will sit with Amelia.”

He’s gone in a flash leaving Molly locking the back door, leaning her forehead against it. _What now?_

###

Molly brings her lunch and a double espresso to the cemetery and yawns the entire time because she didn’t sleep a wink the whole night. _Men watching the house?_ The thought clenches inside her stomach until she called a taxi and took Amelia to stay with Sally and Rick and pleads a problem with her boiler.

She waits by her dad’s headstone for an hour, eats her sandwich and drinks her coffee and even goes across the road to the newsagents’ for some chocolate, but Sherlock doesn’t appear. _Bastard_. There’s no taxis so she has to get the Tube back to Bart’s, angry, caffeine-jittery tears stinging her eyes. _What on earth is wrong with him?_ John and Mary’s wedding plays in her mind like a film, every look and action, press of flesh picked apart and analysed. _What’s happened, between now and then, to make him act so strangely?_

 _You don’t know that he’s acting strangely_ , another part of her thinks as a large group of tourists get on and she manages to grab a seat next to a floppy-haired banker whose face is buried in the Financial Times. _When was the last time that Sherlock had a big case? When he jumped off Bart’s roof. If that’s not strange behaviour then I don’t know what is; on balance, this is rather normal_.

“You were followed to the cemetery.” The banker murmurs in her ear, barely glancing up as he turns the page. “Two men, one of them pallbearers. Don’t see them here though, you must have lost them.”

Molly’s eyes flicker to the man next to her, sees the dark blue suit, the shirt with the blue body and white collar and cuffs, tie pin that glitters in the harsh Tube light and that hair, floppy and strawberry blonde, and all she can mumble is, “Are you wearing a wig?”

“Magnusson is trying to find my weaknesses.” Sherlock turns the page on the paper and doesn’t even glance in her direction but Molly sees the glasses and the brown contact lenses. _I would have walked past him in the street and never known it was the father of my child_. “He’s trying to work out how much you mean to me. I’ve been trying to show him.”

“By acting like an utter arsehole?”

“That would be the idea. Has it been working?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Good.” Sherlock turns another page. He still won’t look at her. _Design, or sentiment?_ “I’ll continue to act in such a way until he’s convinced that you mean nothing to me, thus making your decision to leave for America all the more plausible.”

Molly stares at him and doesn’t know how its possible to love someone as much as she does but still want to slam their head into the Tube window. “And do I?”

“Do you what?”

“Mean nothing to you?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

Molly looks at Sherlock then, looks through the contacts and the glasses and the wig and sees, sees the man beneath. “No. No, I suppose I don’t.”

Sherlock smiles, and tips his head at her. “Just remember that, Molly.”

 _Indeed she does_ , Molly thinks later as she bites her nails to the quick and stares at her daughter. _Indeed she does_.

###

Its frightening, how fast things unravel. Later, when Molly talks about it, she doesn’t talk about it, not really. It’s a time in her life that she lived through, like the months after her dad died and everything was just a blur. It wasn’t a war, or a train wreck in the literal sense. She wasn’t stabbed, shot or abused. But its still traumatic. Much later, her therapist tells her that she needs to talk about it, but who would she talk to?

It begins, as all very large things do, with a very small beginning. After their meeting on the train, Molly doesn’t see Sherlock for a week. _Nothing to worry about_ , she thinks as she goes to work and comes home, struggling with the extra work her sudden promotion has given her. More meetings, less morgue time. _Will Sherlock still want me if I can’t give him access to the morgue?_ But then it doesn’t matter when she’s falling asleep at her desk and the payrise isn’t really worth it anyway, but the Body Farm fellowship form is in and there’s nothing to do there but wait, wait and wait and then wait some more, waiting for something that will possibly never come. _Sounds like my life_ , Molly thinks.

Amelia runs and laughs, totters around the garden that Molly tends on the weekends. Mary spends a lot of time there, her own happy news hidden for now over a bright poncho that’s a welcome sight in Molly’s world.

“Maybe you’ll have a girl.” Molly sighs as she watches her daughter and wishes that Sherlock was here to see it. “Then they can be playmates, when they get older.”

“Maybe it’ll be a boy.” Mary sips her tea and her eyes dance mischeviously. _Being married suits her_ , Molly thinks, and then her heart clenches so hard that it knocks the air out of her lungs. “Then they can break each other’s hearts when they get older.”

“Ever the romantic.” Molly smiles.

“No, that’s your job.”

“Not really. I don’t think there’s any left.” Molly looks at her fingers. “Have you seen him?”

Mary shakes her head, a frown creasing her brow. “Not seen much of him at all. John’s been busy at the practice and Sherlock’s off doing … whatever it is he’s doing.” She reaches for Molly’s hand and squeezes very tightly when she feels her shake. “John says that Magnusson’s a nightmare.” She says, very quietly. “He knows, about people’s weaknesses. He calls them pressure points. Don’t ask me how, the man’s got spies everywhere. He and Mycroft should go into business together, make a fortune.”

“Mycroft still comes here. Quietly, obviously.” Molly wipes her eyes and sinks to the floor, Amelia hugging her as hard as she can. “Sits in that chair and reads the papers to Amelia. He won’t tell me anything about Sherlock, about what he’s doing. Why can’t one of them just be bloody honest, for once?”

“Its their way, isn’t it? You’ve known Sherlock for what, a few years? How can you unlearn a lifetime of behaviour in a few years?” Mary stares down at her cup, as though life’s mysteries are going to be found at the bottom of English breakfast tea.

Later, when Mary has gone and Molly is in the house with no-one but Amelia for company, Molly runs a bath filled with bubbles and her favourite scented oil, sinks into the hot water and fantasises about a time when she and Sherlock and Amelia can be a family.

 _Fantasy. That’s a good word for it. What were you thinking? That a few weeks’ worth of sex and a daughter would turn the great Sherlock Holmes into a domesticated little puppy, walk, sit, heel? Did you really think that the power of love would be enough to change the habits of a man who has styled himself as a high-functioning sociopath? People don’t change, Molly_. God, when Molly closes her eyes she can hear Sherlock’s voice. _They just don’t. We are who we are, isn’t that what Mycroft said? And besides, this was the man you fell in love with, wasn’t it?_

The bathroom floor creaks; Molly opens her eyes with a start and there’s a man there. A man, standing in the doorway, Amelia in his arms. “Dr Hooper. We haven’t been properly introduced.” He’s foreign, Molly can tell that much. European, judging by his accent. He’s tall and skinny, with skin stretched very tightly over his cheekbones, with grey hair and frameless glasses. “My name is Magnusson. Charles Augustus Magnusson.”

Molly can only stare at the man in her doorway, staring at her with the palest eyes she’s ever seen. Fear churns in her gut, low and solid and so heavy that its pinning her to the floor.

“So this is where the great Sherlock Holmes keeps you and his daughter hidden away.” Magnusson crosses the threshold, into Molly’s bathroom, and takes a seat on the corner of the bathtub. Amelia cries to be put down and he relinquishes her with a kiss to her forehead. “Go now, my dear. Your Mummy and I have much to discuss. Don’t get up, Dr Hooper.” He says when Molly’s eyes follow her daughter and her hands reach for the rail. “Stay, finish your bath. Your daughter won’t be harmed.”

Something in his eyes tells Molly to stay where she is if she wants to see Amelia alive again, so she settles back against the tub, suddenly never more glad for the bubbles. Never has she felt more naked. “What do you want?”

Magnusson’s fingers dip into the water, long, with nails more suited to a woman than a man. “You and I have a common goal, I think.”

“We don’t have anything in common.”

“No?” Magnusson’s nail scrapes Molly’s skin, the patch by her ankle, a feather-light touch. She jerks her feet away, draws her knees up to her chin. “We both want Mr Holmes to leave the Lady Smallwood case alone, no?”

Molly stares at him, makes, makes herself look him in the eye. “Sherlock won’t listen to me.” She says, Sherlock’s words in her ears. “He never has, and he never will. I’m not important to him.”

Magnusson smiles indulgently. “Don’t lie to me, Dr Hooper. We both know that isn’t true.” “It is.” Molly nods, shuts her eyes and a single tear leaks out of the right eye. When was the last time she felt this afraid? The man on the bus? _No_ , she decides as she looks at Magnusson. _No, this is worse_. “This house was Mycroft’s idea. Sherlock wouldn’t have thought about it. Mycroft pays the mortgage – some of it, anyway. He’s the one who comes to visit Amelia, who visited her the day she was born. And besides, I’m nothing to him either. I’m just the mother of the only heir the Holmes family has. He doesn’t care. Sherlock doesn’t care. Neither of them do.”

“Your daughter isn’t the only one who lives in this house.” Magnusson glides along the side of the bathtub, nails in the water like a shark smelling blood. “You’ve seen the pictures I have, of the pair of you. A sound recording too, if you’d like to hear it. Not even the delectable Ms Adler made Sherlock Holmes beg the way you did. I’m sure the papers would be interested. They’re always sniffing around for a story about the great Consulting Detective. Frankly I’m surprised they haven’t put two and two together. Birth certificate aside, little Amelia is the mirror image of you both.”

 _Adler_. Molly’s blood is ice in her veins. “That’s not true. That’s not true.”

Magnusson chuckles. “He told you that nothing happened between them, didn’t he? Oh dear, maybe he doesn’t care about you, if he lies so easily. You should ask him, about what transpired between them in Karachi, that night when he saved her life. But then, I have often heard it said that we lie the easiest, to the ones we love so well. But there’s nothing well about how you and Mr Holmes love each other, is there?”

“You don’t know anything about it-“

Magnusson’s hand grips Molly’s leg hard, so fast that Molly’s words are a muffle of bubbles as he grabs her ankle and yanks so her leg is straight and she slides down the tub, water splashing everywhere except on Magnusson. Behind the door, Amelia begins to cry for her mummy.

“Its poison.” He whispers, sliding towards her in time with his hand, inching towards her knee and then higher. “The way he feels about you. The way you feel about him. That’s what love is, my dear Dr Hooper. It is poison, and what does poison do? Why, it kills us from the inside, mottles our colour and shortens our breath, deprives us of the ability to think clearly. It is the most effective poison there is.” His fingers clear her knee to touch the soft flesh of her inner thigh and Molly jerks away, stands up in the bathtub uncaring if she is naked and covered in bubbles.

“Get out.” She whispers, fumbling for the towel. “Get out of my house!”

Magnusson’s hand is wet, from where he’s gripped her. His tongue darts out, long and thin and sharp just like his nails, and he licks his finger from top to bottom until there’s no bubbles left on the skin, wipes his hands on the corner of Molly’s towel. “A word of advice, Dr Hooper? Leave, while you can. Before Sherlock Holmes destroys you and takes your daughter with you both. He doesn’t love you, he’s not capable of it. What he thinks is love, is destruction.”

Magnusson glides out of the bathroom, down the stairs and out of her house, the door clicking closed behind him so softly. Amelia’s in Molly’s arms and she’s crying, they’re both crying, Molly stumbling towards the bedroom, hysteria threatening the edges of her mind as she throws things in a bag and gets dressed, all while clutching Amelia to her chest.

Its chilly out in the evenings, even though the days are pleasant again. Molly’s hair is wet and drips down her neck, soaking her jumper. She hails a cab and can’t remember the address she gives but London flashes by and before she knows it the cabbie has stopped outside Baker Street and is asking Molly if she’s alright, if she needs a hand with her bags. Molly stares up at the flat, the black door. Her eyes squeeze shut and she hears that sigh, that little breathy moan that had been Sherlock’s ringtone for so long. A little gasp of pleasure. _He wouldn’t lie to me. He wouldn’t_. She pays the cab driver and he waits while she bangs on the door and screams Sherlock’s name.

“Molly.” He opens it wearing pyjamas and his dressing gown, brow furrowed and a face full of concern. “What are you doing here?”

“Magnusson.” Molly sobs, letting her fear overwhelm her for the first time. “Magnusson came to the house, Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes her and Amelia upstairs, where a fire is blazing in the hearth and his violin sits on the table, sheet paper everywhere covered in hasty scrawl. Molly sinks into the nearest chair, her legs too wobbly to hold her up anymore. Sherlock bypasses the tea and makes straight for the brandy, still there from Mycroft’s visit at Christmas. He pours her a stiff measure and one for himself, holds it out to her. Only when she’s downed half of it and her shaking has subsided does he ask her to tell him what happened.

Time stands still for Molly as she talks, drinks some more. When she looks down the glass is empty but there are other people in the room, Mycroft and John and Mary, people who weren’t there before. _How long have they been there?_ Molly holds out her glass and Mycroft refills it without a word. _How long have I been talking?_

Sherlock’s pacing, behind her chair; Molly can hear the swish and swoosh his dressing gown makes in the air. She closes her eyes and sees him wrapped around Irene Adler and suddenly the brandy wasn’t such a good idea. Her stomach rolls and she stands up but the room spins and she sinks back down again and when a cool hand comes on her shoulder to steady her all she hears is that breathy moan from Sherlock’s phone at Christmas and all she feels are Magnusson’s nails on her flesh. She jumps away with a yelp. The glass falls to the floor. When Molly’s eyes focus the others are looking at her strangely and Sherlock’s hand is half-hanging, suspended in mid-air.

“I, uh … I just need to use the bathroom.” She darts away before anyone else can protest, pleased to be away from the heat thrown off by the fire and the others’ well-meaning glances. She splashes cool water on her face, sinks onto the corner of the bathtub until she remembers Magnusson and decides that she’s going to throw her tub in the skip as soon as she gets home.

“Molly.” Fingers on the door, knocking. “Molly, can I come in?”

Molly sighs, opens the door to Mary Watson. “I thought you might be Sherlock.”

“He’s in the kitchen with Mycroft, fighting about the security detail on your house and how they couldn’t survey something if their lives depended on it. Sherlock looks like he’s just seen a ghost.” Mary gives Molly a hug. “Think you quite shocked him when you had your moment out there. You alright?”

“No.” Molly shakes her head and the first tears slip free. “No, I’m not.”

Mary takes Molly’s hand and together they sit on the bath’s edge until all of Molly’s tears have been cried out, Mary brushing her hair behind her ears and whispering soothing words. When Molly’s cheeks are finally dry, she splashes more cold water on her face.

“Magnusson told me that Sherlock slept with her. The Woman, he calls her.”

“Sherlock might be inexperienced but he’s not a monk.” Mary smiles. “Everyone thought he and John were together when he first moved in. Who is she? This woman, I mean?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that her name’s Irene Adler. She met Sherlock for a case, a few years ago.”

“And?” Mary shrugs. “Its not like you were a virgin before you met Sherlock.”

“Its not that.” Molly sighs a long, shaky breath and makes herself be calm. “She came into the morgue. A patient of mine.”

“Definitely no threat now then. Sorry.” Mary winces. “Bit not good, that. Carry on.”

“She was …” Molly looks at the floor. “Sherlock recognised her by not-her-face.”

“Ah.”

“She’d set his ringtone on his phone to this little breathy moan. More like a gasp, really.”

Mary nods once. “The Christmas party.”

“John told you?”

“He told me. He nearly decked Sherlock, after what he pulled on you at that party.”

“I went on her website, after Sherlock had been in the morgue. I saw what she … specialised in. She was gorgeous, Mary.”

“You’re gorgeous, Molly.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just me. She’s – was – beautiful, and elegant, and smart and … a force of nature. She was the female version of Sherlock. And when I asked him if he’d slept with her, he said he hadn’t.”

“And?” Mary shrugs.

“And why wouldn’t he, if he had the chance?”

“He had the chance to tell you about it when you asked, and he said no. Sherlock doesn’t lie, Molly. If anything, I think people wish he lied more often.”

“You’re right.” Molly puts her head in her hands. “I’m just being silly. Its just … I love him, Mary.” Her voice is very low, low and pained like an animal searching for somewhere to die alone and in peace. “I love him and it terrifies me that each day that passes, I fall more and more in love with him, despite everything that happens. And its not like when we first met when he was beautiful and intelligent and amazing. I didn’t know him. Now I know him. And he’s an arsehole. But he’s good and he’s kind and he’s so much more than I thought he was and sometimes he looks at me and I know that he’s trying so hard to be better at this, for me, and for Amelia. Other times he looks at me and I’m sure he sees a stranger.”

“It’s the case.” Mary’s eyes and dark and stormy; _how far is the case affecting her and John_ , Molly wonders. “Magnusson’s a snake.”

“But there’s always going to be a case. The last time he had a case this big, Sherlock threw himself off a roof. Now he’s chasing a man who broke into my house and threatened me while I was in my bath. Who has recordings of me and Sherlock, together. Just to test what we feel for each other.” Molly wipes her eyes. “He told me that he was an addict. That there would always be something he was addicted to. This addiction’s already killed him once, what if it does it again?”

Mycroft is already gone when Molly eventually comes out of the bathroom. Mary and John are in the living room with Sherlock, who stands when Molly comes out and then follows her into the bathroom when she begins to make tea for everyone.

“What did Magnusson do to you, in the house?” His voice is low, hesitant. _I’ve never flinched under his touch until tonight_.

“Lots of things.”

“Something specific.” Sherlock’s fingers inch towards hers. “I thought that if I stayed away, he would think that you didn’t matter to me. I should have reconsidered. It was such a bad idea.” His eyes meet hers. “I’m so sorry, Molly. I hurt you and left you open to being hurt by others.”

Molly stares at him, long and hard. “Tell me what happened with Irene Adler.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together, as if he doesn’t understand the question. “What do you mean?”

“Magnusson said that he had pictures. Of me and you. That he had …” Molly feels her stomach churn. “Footage. He said that you had never begged Irene Adler for mercy the way you begged me.”

“Molly-“

“Did you sleep with her, Sherlock?”

“Of course not!” He snaps. “How can you think that?”

“Because you identified her by her measurements!” Molly snaps. “Because she’s gorgeous and brilliant and you haven’t been there for weeks and Magnusson sat on the edge of the bathtub with his hand halfway up my leg and he knew exactly which pressure points to squeeze.”

“He touched you.” Sherlock’s fingers move to Molly’s, lacing them together. “He touched you.”

“In the bathtub. He wouldn’t let me get out of the bath.”

Sherlock’s face is pale. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not physically.”

Sherlock’s hands take Molly’s shoulders and he pulls her close. “I swear to you, Molly, that I did not sleep with that woman. There’s only been you, these past few years. Only you.”

“We’ll be off then.” John and Mary appear in the doorway, hand-in-hand. Hugs and kisses are exchanged, John and Sherlock linger by the front door for some minutes, their voices low, but then Sherlock’s footsteps come up the stairs and they’re alone, and it strikes Molly that they’ve never been alone in this room together, before, and for the first time in a while, she doesn’t know what to say to him.

Sherlock takes a seat in his chair, steeples his fingers. “I will solve this case, Molly. I will retrieve the letters that Lady Smallwood requires, and I will see that Magnusson is stopped. And then you and I are going to go away.”

“Go away?”

“To a place of your choosing. With or without Amelia. In or out of the country, Europe, the Americas, wherever you want, for a length of time that you deem sufficient. For once, in the entire time we have known each other, we are going to go somewhere where death won’t follow us around.”

“Oh Sherlock.” Molly sighs and rises. She’s very tired and more than anything just wants to go to bed. “Its not about what happens while we’re away. That’s easy. Its about what happens while we’re here, in our lives. Because when is death not going to follow us – us, a pathologist and a consulting detective – around?” She comes towards him and brushes her lips to his, pulls away before he has a chance to deepen the kiss. “What you have to learn, Sherlock, is how to live amidst the death.”

She sleeps in his bed because the sheets are finest Egyptian cotton and it’s a comfier bed than John’s. At some point he follows but she’s asleep when he slides into bed next to her, close but not touching. He’s awake when she finally stirs, staring at the ceiling.

“Today I’m going to break into Magnusson’s building, retrieve the information that Lady Smallwood requires.” He gives her a small smile. “It will be over, by tonight. And then I will learn, how to balance the living amongst the dead, when the ones that are more than an eight come along. Starting with you and Amelia.”

Molly wants so badly to believe him.

###

She’s in her bathroom, giving Amelia a bath before bed, when the phone goes. The little girl’s skittish about being in there, like she can not only sense her mother’s unease but knows, knows that something horrible happened in this room. Molly’s seriously tempted to move but shakes her head and all her fears away. Charles Augustus Magnusson isn’t going to chase me out of my own home, thank you very much. _More good things than bad have happened here and if you allow yourself to be shaped by the bad, then what kind of a person are you going to be? What kind of lesson, would I be teaching to Amelia if I did?_

She catches the phone on the last ring, breathless. “Hello?”

“You need to come to the hospital. Bart’s.” John sounds like he’s about to cry and Molly’s world starts to crumble. “Sherlock’s been shot. Mary’s coming to get you.”

“Shot.” Molly’s knuckles are white on the phone. The world is crumbling away, all the pieces at once. “Is he alive?”

“For the moment.” John’s voice breaks. “Hurry, Molly.”

 

TBC.


End file.
